


An Echo, A Stain

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Gen, Halloween, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Paranormal Romance, Psychological Horror, Spooky Mansion, Vampires, Werewolves, just during chapter 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-01-11
Packaged: 2019-01-16 00:45:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 30,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12332097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: Nobody goes near Insomnia Manor; not any more.It's been condemned for years, but there are stories — harrowing tales of those foolish enough to venture within its walls, never to be seen again. But those are just ghost stories, right?When Prompto wakes up in a room alone in the dark, he has no idea of the events about to unfold.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My attempt at paranomal romance, feat. promptio and psychological horror. Enjoy!
> 
> Title is from the fantastic song by Björk, which I'd love to link but all the videos seem to be unavailable on Youtube ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> You can view the lyrics [here](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/b/bjork/an+echo+a+stain_20018991.html).

_Prompto looks into the eyes of the creature before him. Its fur bristles, standing on end, and with each heavy, laboured breath a plume of steam unfurls from its great maws._

_It takes a step forward. He shrinks back until he hits the cold stone wall behind him and can go no farther._

_‘Easy, buddy,’ he says, lifting his hands in a gesture of submission._

_He tries to channel years of dealing with ferocious dogs during the morning paper run when he was a kid, but this is no family pet, no yippy terrier snapping at his heels as he beats a hasty retreat from the neighbourhood._

_The beast takes another step forward and Prompto feels that hot breath blow out against the palm of his hand as it sniffs his skin._

_He closes his eyes; tries to convince himself that when he opens them again, the creature will be gone._

_There’s the click of nails on stone, the padding of paws across the ground. Steam washes over his face — the creature’s breath. With a lurch of fear, he realises he can smell the coppery tang of blood on it._

_Slowly, he cracks one eye open, then the other. Eyes the colour of molten caramel stare back at him, inches away, and as those great jaws open with a glint of yellow fangs, he turns his face away and says a silent prayer._

* * *

_Hours earlier._

Prompto opens his eyes to darkness.

He’s lying down somewhere cold and damp, and when he feels around his hands skirt over something rough, like concrete. He doesn’t think he’s outside — there’s no moon to see by, and there’s a muffled quality to the sound as he scrapes his shoes against the ground. A room, then — somewhere small.

When he tries to sit up, his head swims; he puts a hand to his temple and finds it sticky. The realisation that it’s probably blood makes his heart thud erratically in his chest.

_No._ He needs to keep a clear head about this. Piece everything together and figure out what’s going on.

The last thing he remembers is locking the front door of his apartment building behind him. When he tries to recall where he went after that, where he was planning on going to begin with, it’s all foggy. Like trying to remember a story somebody told him a long time ago.

Carefully, he manages to shift into a sitting position and pulls his knees to his chest. His legs wobble a little; when he moves his hands to steady himself, his hands are shaking like he’s coming off a caffeine high.

_Did somebody drug me?_

He hears about it sometimes — at the clubs around the city. A naive little part of him would have thought that the students’ union at the university would have been safe, but from the horror stories he’s heard since coming here, he knows better now.

He doesn’t _think_ he was on a night out; he’s wearing his skinny jeans with tears in the knees, and Converse. Definitely not dressed up, by any means.

The hole in his memory taunts him, fuzzy and indistinct. Sometimes, when he’s not concentrating, he thinks he can remember something — but then when he tries to focus it all slips away like sand through his fingers.

_Okay, Prompto. Start simple. Day of the week._

‘Thursday,’ he says, out loud.

That’s right — the pre-Halloween movie night at the students’ union. He can’t remember if he made it there or not; when he tries to picture himself taking those first steps down the street from his home, the memory fades off into swirling darkness, as thick and profound as that of the room around him.

It’s a long shot, but he checks his pockets for his phone. There’s nothing in them that he can find — no phone, no wallet, no keys. He thinks maybe he had been wearing a jacket when he left the house, but it’s gone now, along with whatever the pockets held.

He groans and lowers his face into his hands.

There’s a scent on his palms, faint but just distinctive enough to pick out. It smells like damp soil. A flood of memories rushes in — stepping through frost-tipped grass, dropping his phone and stooping to pick it up. A girl’s laughter: _‘You really are clumsy, aren’t you?’_

Luna.

The name pops into his head and all at once he can picture her face, her hair so pale it seemed silver in the moonlight. The silk scarf she had worn about her throat, that he had carefully tucked back into place when it had come loose.

They had been running — not _away_ from something, but fooling around. She had taken off at a sprint ahead of him, giggling all the while, and when he had caught up to her and paused to fix her scarf, she had kissed him.

That must have been when he dropped his phone, he thinks, but it’s getting all foggy again and he can’t see her face any more, can’t remember the colour of her eyes that had burned itself so readily into his memory before.

When he scrubs at his temples in a bid to jog his memory, his fingertips touch blood again and he takes a moment to inspect the damage. The wound is in his hairline, blood caked in the strands there. It’s tender and makes him feel dizzy when he touches it, so he lets his hand drop. It doesn’t seem as bad as he first thought, at least.

He wonders where Luna is — if she ended up here, too, or if whatever happened to lead him here came after they parted ways.

Tentatively, he moves onto all fours and sets about exploring his surroundings, hands feeling around along the way. He feels stone tiles underneath him, not concrete; his fingers follow the lines of grout along their intricate patterns. He’s so caught up in trying to picture them when his head bumps into something solid.

His fumbling reveals it to be the leg of a coffee table, of a sturdy enough build that it doesn’t budge when he uses it to pull himself upright. He feels around on the surface of it until his hand hits something cold and metal and sets it rocking with a loud _clink_ ; when he hurriedly reaches out to stop it, he finds himself grasping a candlestick.

His heart pounds as he pats his hand around on top of the table and — yes, there! His fingers close around a little box, the movement setting the matches within tumbling over one another with a distinctive sound.

His first two attempts at lighting matches fail, and he’s shaking with nerves when he makes his third. When it ignites, he carefully cups it against any draughts and uses the flame to guide his way to the candlestick, setting the wick alight.

It’s not much, but it’s better than total darkness — and when he picks the candlestick up he finds it provides just enough illumination to start to pick out the features of the room. He pockets the box of matches and moves away from the table, carefully stepping only as far as the sphere of light shows him.

There’s a sofa beside the table, some ornate looking thing made of dark wood and plush red velvet; at the far end of it is an end table with another candlestick on it, which he quickly lights. On the wall above the sofa is a painting in an elaborate golden frame. The image depicted within is some craggy landscape with a river running through it.

There’s a door on the far side of the room. Even as he spots it and hurries towards it, he knows he’s getting his hopes up; his hand closes around the knob and twists and pulls, but it won’t budge. He slams his fist on the door’s surface a few times, yells as loud as he can in spite of the scratchiness in his throat — when was the last time he drank or ate? — but there’s no response, if there’s even anybody around to hear him.

Great.

No phone, no knowledge of where he is or how he got here, and no way out.

With a sigh, he moves and sets his candle aside before flopping down on the couch. He’ll try to figure out how to get out of this mess, but first he has to remember how he got himself into it to begin with.


	2. Chapter 2

Prompto doesn’t remember drifting off.

He had been checking each of the walls for hidden doors — as unlikely as  _ that _ would have been — and trying to think what Cindy would have done in his shoes. He had sat down after maybe an hour or more of this, of periodically hammering on the door to call for help. He must have passed out then, more tired than he had thought.

The candles have long since sputtered out, but he’s not in total darkness like before; a pallid shaft of light spreads across the floor from the far side of the room, and he leaps to his feet when he realises the door is open.

Outside is a hallway, lit up by candles in sconces. Even amid all his eagerness to escape, he finds himself wondering whose job it is to keep candles lit in a place like this, and then it dawns on him that if someone was lighting candles, it means they passed by his door.

Whoever that  _ someone  _ was, maybe they were the one who unlocked it.

At one end of the hallway is a window framed by heavy curtains of deep purple brocade. They’re open, even though it’s dark out; he can see the grey-black of the night sky through the rivulets of rain running down the windowpanes. 

He makes for the window first, but the frame is held tight by heavy locks. He briefly entertains the prospect of smashing the glass, but he doesn’t much like the thought of bleeding to death before he can find his way to safety.

There has to be a way out; he just has to keep calm.

He heads back to his room first, hunting around for something to use as a weapon. In the drawer of the end table is a wooden letter opener which probably wouldn’t inflict much more than a papercut, but it’s better than nothing. Sliding it inside the sleeve of his sweater, he heads back out into the hall.

His isn’t the only room along the corridor — doors run along both sides, some locked while others lie open. He doesn’t find anything useful along the way.

At the far end from the window, a door opens onto a stairwell leading up to the next floor. There are no candles to light the way in here; the cold and dark are forbidding enough to deter him even before he considers the logic of going  _ up _ a floor when he’s trying to escape.

The hallway is an L-shape, angling off to the right when he returns; there’s only one door at the end of it. Checking that his letter opener is securely in place in his sleeve, he walks towards it and tries the handle.

He emerges into a vast foyer, with a grand staircase opening onto a balcony on the upper floor. There are more sconces lit up out here, and when he steps into the centre of the room he can see an ornamental chandelier hanging overhead, so big he doubts the whole thing would fit into his bedroom back home. Standing beneath it, he peers up to see that it’s filled not with bulbs, but with candles.

When his head drops back down, his glance lands on a set of double doors. That must be the way out — his blood sings in his veins as he rushes toward it, and at first he almost can’t believe his bad fortune when he finds them both locked.

But then — of course. Nothing’s ever that easy.

He taps his thumb against his lip while he thinks, looking around the room. There are doors on this level and the next one up, but he can’t begin to riddle out the scale of the place to figure out an alternate exit.

He paces, his Converse squeaking slightly on the meticulously polished tiles underfoot.

Maybe there’s a phone he can get to somewhere — or even something that can tell him where exactly he is. If he knew how far he was from the city, he might just take a shot at shattering one of the windows and making a break for it.

He’s looking through the tall windows to either side of the double doors, spanning from the ground to the ceiling of the upper level, when he hears the sound of a rusty hinge echoing through the room. He glances around fitfully for somewhere to hide, something to duck behind, but there isn’t anything — the closest thing to him is the door on the far side of the room from the corridor leading to his little cell, and when he tries the handle it’s miraculously unlocked.

He leaves the door open a little, just enough to peer through, and presses his face to the crack.

A man of middling years walks briskly across the main hall, his greying hair catching the candlelight. He’s dressed a little strangely, although Prompto has to admit the all-black attire and cape draped over one shoulder seem fitting of the location. 

The man stands in the middle of the hall for just a moment, inspecting a pocket watch which he removes from his jacket; when a grandfather clock chimes twice, he gives a satisfied nod and returns the watch before continuing along his path. 

Two chimes. Two in the morning.

Prompto’s stomach gives an uncomfortable growl. He feels like he’s running on fumes, but there’s a jittery alertness keeping him going. He doesn’t expect it to last much longer.

Carefully pressing the door shut, he takes a moment to inspect his surroundings. He’s in a dining room with a long table that could easily seat a dozen. Just beyond the chair at the head of it is a fireplace, in which a handful of logs crackle cheerfully ablaze.

He still has his letter opener tucked in his sleeve, but he grabs a poker from the cast iron tools at the edge of the hearth. Better safe than sorry.

He doesn’t dare go back out into the main hall in case the man should come back, so he takes the only other door out of the room. Outside is a narrow corridor, dimly lit by yet more candles. The wallpaper in here is dizzying — a fleur-de-lis pattern interlaced with other florals, in hues of brown and green and ochre.

He pauses and listens; he doesn’t think he hears anything. Tightening his grip on the poker, he paces slowly down the corridor.

There’s a kitchen at one end — of little use to him. The door at the far end takes him into another hallway, this one a small L-shape.

He catches something as he passes by the only door in sight — a scent, just barely at the edge of his awareness. It’s something tantalising, something sweet, and he just can’t quite place it. It draws him; compels his hand toward the knob, where he twists it and finds it unlocked.

It’s an office of sorts, small and cosy. A stove sits in the corner, a fire crackling inside the window of it; it’s the only source of light in the room.

The desk is covered in organised clutter — journals, papers and documents, all in neat piles. Curiosity drives him around to the far side of it and he leafs through the papers. They’re personal files mostly: correspondence of little importance. He sees a signature at the bottom of some of them, but the handwriting is too elaborate for him to make out.

There are books on the shelf behind him, mostly volumes of poetry and literature from Scottish authors. Nothing about it brings him any closer to figuring out where exactly he is. With a sigh, he moves away from the desk.

There’s a chaise longue against one of the walls. As he passes it, he catches that scent again, stronger. When he leans close to the fabric of the chaise it fills his nostrils, wraps him up and ensnares him.

_ He’s outside, under the stars. Luna’s fingers are twined through his, and her hand is impossibly cold to the touch but he doesn’t care. _

_ She kissed him. He dropped his phone, and she had teased him, and then she had kissed him again. _

_ His heart feels like it could burst. _

_ ‘So,’ she says breathlessly, tugging at his hand. ‘Will you come with me?’ _

_ Something within him urges him to say yes, but there’s something dark, something insidious and small in him that warns him against it. It’s ridiculous — he’s getting scared over nothing. But even as he nods and lets her pull him by the hand, he feels his stomach twist with dread. _

Prompto takes in a deep breath and steps away. He feels like he’s shaking off a dream, yet somehow it had been so  _ real. _

Luna has been here, he’s sure of it. That was the scent of her perfume, sweet and familiar even though he’s only smelled it twice before.

At least… he thinks he has. What else is locked away in the shadows of his memory?

Whatever — he has to focus. Not just on escaping, but on finding Luna too. Wherever she is, she might be locked up in a room just like he was, fruitlessly screaming and hammering on her door.

The weight of the poker in his grasp might as well be nothing at all for how much its presence reassures him, yet he keeps it so tightly in its grip as if his life depends on it. He can’t even imagine having to bringing himself to use it in self-defence, and he hopes he doesn’t have to as he steps back out into the hall and lets it hang by his side.

The door around the corner leads outside — there’s a pane of bevelled glass set into the window, and through it he can see the faint glow of the night sky. The rain seems to have stopped for now, although wind howls as the door protests beneath its strength.

The door is locked. He has to bite back a snarl of frustration.

He leans against the wall, letting his head drop back against it. His gaze settles on the sconce on the wall across from him, and as exhaustion clouds his head, the flickering candlelight makes eerie shapes upon the wall.

This place is like a maze — so many locked doors, so many corridors. With a sinking feeling of dread, he realises his only option now is to return to the main hall.

Each step that takes him closer, the dread only seems to worsen. The hallways are uncannily quiet as though they’re guiding him towards something, and even as he consciously tells himself it’s ridiculous, he still can’t shake the feeling.

Back through to the corridor and into the dining room. Past the crackling fire that might be homely and welcoming if the night hadn’t left him chilled to the bone.

The ticking of the grandfather is sullen in the main hall; heavy, like the slow thud of a heart. He’s midway across the tiles when he realises there’s another sound just out of time the mechanical rhythm — the thump of footsteps.

By some miracle he manages to duck beneath the balcony of the upper level as a figure comes into view, treading wearily down the stairs. It’s a man, deceptively tall though his shoulders are hunched. His dark blonde hair is swept back on his hand, peppered with strands of silver.

It’s as good of a look as Prompto can get before he has to duck behind the staircase and out of view as the man’s slow, jaded steps bring him down to the main level.

Prompto presses himself to the wall, willing himself into the face of it as though he can shrink entirely out of view. There’s a door in front of him that he hadn’t noticed before and another set into the wall by him, but mercifully the man’s intentions lie elsewhere; Prompto hears the neat clicking of his shoes across the floor, then the low creak of a door’s hinges across the hall. He only dares to breathe again when he hears the snap of the door shutting once more.

He peeks his head around the corner and lets his eyes scan across the room. When he stares too long into the corners where the candlelight doesn’t reach, he sees the shadows reassemble into figures. When he blinks, they’re gone.

His heart still jumps about in its perch in his chest as he weighs up his options. Twice now, he has almost crossed paths with someone using a door on this floor. If he goes upstairs, he’s sure to find himself backed into some corner like frightened prey.

He looks at the door in front of him. It’s solid, and fitted with a heavier lock like that of the main entrance. He can hear the soft whistle of a breeze straining through the cracks around the edges of it.

His feet carry him towards it; even as his head tells him he’ll find it locked, his hand lifts of its own accord toward the handle. He closes his fingers around it and pulls it down, and with a resounding click it pops open.

There’s a room on the other side of it, but it’s a conservatory of sorts — walled in by windows, with a ceiling of glass showing the night’s sky overhead. Hurriedly, Prompto steps through the door and shuts it behind him.

Everywhere Prompto looks, there are plants: ferns sprawling out of terracotta pots, flowers of peculiar shades glimmering in the moonlight. One of the windows is open, letting the wind in; a hanging basket swings precariously in front of it, suspended from the ceiling.

A single glass door stands between him and the outside — locked, but with a key hanging from a hook beside it. His hand trembles as he slips it free and lowers it to the lock, twisting it until he hears the lock disengage. 

The wind is unbearably cold, but he welcomes the feel of it lashing against his face as he takes his first step into the night air. Out here, there’s no stifling silence; under the howl of the wind he can hear the swaying of the trees, the startled cry of an animal.

He’s outside, at last.


	3. Chapter 3

The wind whips at Prompto’s hair; he plucks a strand from his mouth and steps forward into the scattered moonlight, looking about his surroundings. He can’t see very far — the trees are dense here, giving the illusion of stepping from the door right into a forest. He tries to peer between the hulking shapes of gnarled, silver bark but he can see little more than a paved path and an ornate stone bench a bit ahead.

He takes a few tentative steps forward, and even though he can’t hear much over the rustling of the wind through the trees, he keeps his ears pricked for voices.

As far as he can tell, he’s alone.

He follows a winding path through the trees, ducking under low branches as he goes. The trees begin to thin and the path forks off in a few directions: toward a fountain, toward a wing of the house, toward a wrought iron gazebo with flowers and vines caressing the frame. He follows a fourth, leading deeper into the thicket.

Maybe it’s the path, or the near identical branches crowding overhead, but he starts to feel like he’s wandering in circles; he passes a spindly tree with sickly red berries, and soon he thinks he passes it again. When he turns around to try to get his bearings there’s no view of the manor — just forest, endlessly sprawling ahead.

He turns again, and he’s facing the tree with the berries once more — but did the path fork around it before?

Claustrophobia sinks its claws into him, a stranglehold around his throat. He’s outside, but he might as well be locked away in a warren of tunnels beneath the ground.

‘Okay,’ he murmurs. ‘Pull yourself together. All paths gotta lead to freedom, right?’

He tries to ignore the sting of the cold through the meager layers of his clothes and pushes forward, choosing the left path. As he walks he hears the hiss of a flurry of rain hitting the trees but his hair and skin remain untouched, sheltered by the warped, withered branches above.

Prompto’s limbs feel leaden; each step is like wading through water. With every pace it feels like he’s sinking deeper into the cold, and it clings to him, damp like mist. He shivers and wraps his arm across his front in a feeble attempt at staving off the chill.

Step by step by step, he trudges along the path until it turns from pavestones to crisp, frost-bitten dirt.

Steadily, slow as tar, realisation dawns on him: he hasn’t heard a sound beyond the crunch of his footsteps in a long while. Not even the wind seems to howl any more, and there’s something heavy about the air. 

The skin prickles at the nape of his neck.

He stops.

Far behind him, the thing that watches from the trees stops, too.

Every breath comes out ragged and strained as his heart picks up in his chest. He runs his thumb over the cold iron of the poker still firmly clenched in his hand and, with a careful, measured breath, takes another step forward.

Behind him he hears a footstep breaking through the frost.

He doesn’t wait for the thing to take another step; steeling himself, he sets off in a run, as fast as his legs will take him.

If he hadn’t been sure he was being followed before, he is now: whatever lurks in the trees announces their pursuit with a crashing, cacophonous sound of snapping branches. He doesn’t bother to look over his shoulder to see what chases him — whatever it is, it’s  _ big _ , and it’s going to catch up with him.

He changes his path suddenly, hoping to shake the thing off by following a narrower trail through the trees, but it isn’t long before he can hear laboured breathing and the thunder of feet — no,  _ paws _ — close behind him.

His whole body breaks out in a cold sweat — it drips from his hairline into his eyes, sits clammy on the back of his neck. He feels his palms go slick and the poker slips from his grasp, dropping behind him.

He runs as if his life depends on it, knowing that in some way it probably does; his lungs protest and his body screams at him to stop and he keeps going, keeps pushing as his legs turn to fire with each desperate stride.

There’s light up ahead, light and  _ safety _ , and he keeps going even though his breath comes out in sharp, pained gasps, even though he’s seeing black spots in his eyes. 

There’s a door up ahead, and he’s already reaching out to it, clawing through the air for it; the thing behind him is so close now,  _ so close _ , but he knows he can make it if he just  _ keeps going _ , if he just gets to the door and— 

He’s feet away when he realises, when it all comes crashing down around him.

He’s seen this door before.

Not _this side_ of it, but this door — the same bevelled glass, the _same_ _damn door_ …

He almost slams into it in his failure to slow down, and his sweat-slick hands fumble with the knob that is, of course, still locked. He yanks at it, he twists it, he throws his shoulder into the door but it’s no good. It won’t budge.

He almost wishes he still had that fire poker as he turns around, not that it would have done him much good. Chest heaving, he looks about for his predator and sees nothing — only trees, only pavestones leading him back the way he came.

Was it ever even there? When he was sprinting through the trees, running away and yet going nowhere at all, did he dream it all up?

His head feels so foggy; he presses the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubs until he sees splotches of red behind his eyelids. With each breath he sucks in, he blows it out slowly and tries to get his head straight.

Maybe  _ everything _ is a dream. Maybe he’s safe in his bed right now, tossing and turning but very much  _ not _ trapped in some creepy mansion.

He lowers his hands and pinches his arm through his sleeve, hard enough to make himself yelp. It definitely feels real — so does the icy sweat trickling under his arms, making his shirt cling to him. So… not a dream.

As he turns, Prompto feels the heft of the letter opener drop down his sleeve and into his hand. With a laugh at the futility of it, he flings it at the wall and hears it bounce off, landing somewhere on the ground.

The trees are just as dense and inscrutable as before, and all he can see is the path that links up with the fork a little way ahead. The only way to go is back toward the other door into the manor.

He trudges onward, limbs heavy with exhaustion and resignation. He had thought he’d found a way out, finally — he finds it hard now to resist the compulsion to look toward the route he had followed on his frantic dash into the trees. He’s scared of what he’ll see if he looks back; he’s scared it won’t be there any more.

The conservatory is up ahead, the interior obscured by the sheen of moonlight on the glass. The sight of it makes his skin crawl, makes his stomach roil with dread. When he gets to the door he stops and leans against the window by it, sliding down until he’s sitting on the ground.

He barely feels the dampness of the stone through his clothes, barely registers the chill of the night air any more. With a weary sigh, he pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs his arms around them, burying his head against them.

Luna’s face comes to him with another knot of dread: wherever she is, is she safe? Should he try to find her?

He should. He  _ knows _ he should. There’s a pang of guilt, and he tells himself that should have been his first priority — not running away, but making sure that she’s okay. He knows better now; he’ll do better.

He sighs and lifts his head; brushes sweat-damp hair out of his eyes and moves to stand.

There’s a shadow in the trees up ahead. The sight of it turns his blood to ice-water; when he tries to move, he can’t. He can do little more than sit and watch as the shadow creeps closer and resolves itself into the shape of something very large and dark, its frame a hulking mass of fur: pointy ears and even pointier fangs, all the better to eat him with, my dear.

It’s like something out of one of his horror movies — no, it’s not  _ like _ something, it  _ is _ something, torn right from the pages of some gothic novel.

When his limbs finally respond, he pushes himself slowly upright as the beast moves ever closer; slowly, he reaches his hand for the door but the monster gives a warning growl that makes the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

If Prompto didn’t know better, he’d say it was moving for the door — trying to put itself between him and his escape route. When he tries again to reach for it, more subtly this time, the creature snaps its jaws at him.

Okay. Better  _ not _ piss this thing off.

He takes one step to the right, away from the door. There’s no growl this time, nothing to warn him away. When he takes another step away the beast merely watches, head cocking slightly to the side. Almost like it’s studying him.

Bit by bit, Prompto edges himself away from the door. If he’s careful enough, maybe he can creep all the way along the wall of the manor and — what then? Make a run for it, only to get all turned around again and wind up back here.

He swallows.

The beast is still watching him as he goes, blundering a little on the raised edges of the paving underfoot. A rushed glance behind him tells him he’s backing himself into a corner, so he adjusts his bearing a little to the side and keeps up his slow, painstaking pace.

The beast perks up, alert; lifts its head as if catching the scent of him on the air.

He freezes, and it makes its way towards him, stopping a few feet away.

Prompto looks into the eyes of the creature before him. Its fur bristles, standing on end, and with each heavy, laboured breath a plume of steam unfurls from its great maws.

It takes a step forward. He shrinks back until he hits the cold stone wall behind him and can go no farther.

‘Easy, buddy,’ he says, lifting his hands in a gesture of submission.

He tries to channel years of dealing with ferocious dogs during the morning paper run when he was a kid, but this is no family pet, no yippy terrier snapping at his heels as he beats a hasty retreat from the neighbourhood.

The beast takes another step forward and Prompto feels that hot breath blow out against the palm of his hand as it sniffs his skin.

He closes his eyes; tries to convince himself that when he opens them again, the creature will be gone.

There’s the click of nails on stone, the padding of paws across the ground. Steam washes over his face — the creature’s breath. With a lurch of fear, he realises he can smell the coppery tang of blood on it.

Slowly, he cracks one eye open, then the other. Eyes the colour of molten caramel stare back at him, inches away, and as those great jaws open with a glint of yellow fangs, he turns his face away and says a silent prayer.

Something cold and wet — the beast’s nose — butts his face. He feels a sting as it skirts over his wound, sniffing it, then moves gradually down until it’s nuzzling his neck. He can’t help the little whimper of fear that escapes his lips as he imagines the burst of pain, the searing heat of blood pouring from his throat.

It never comes.

The click of claws on the ground signals the beast’s movement, and when Prompto can finally muster the courage to look he sees it slinking away backwards, its eyes never leaving him until it disappears back into the shroud of the trees.

He hadn’t realised he had been holding his breath; he lets it all out in a gush that sounds a lot like a sob.

He’s trembling so badly he can hardly stand, yet he somehow manages to drag himself to his feet and makes his halting way toward the conservatory. He misses the handle the first few times, but when his fingers find their way home he can’t open it fast enough. With only a wall of glass between him and the beast, he knows he’s not safe, so he hurries across the room and lets himself into the main hall, hardly caring that he’s back where it all began.

His feet move in time to the ticking of the grandfather clock as he edges around the staircase and into the centre of the hall. There, he looks about from door to door, weighing his options.

He doesn’t hear the footsteps, but he feels her: feels the shift in the air, the quickening of his heart that signals her presence. When he turns she’s at the bottom of the staircase, as lovely as he remembers.

‘Prompto,’ she says, and there’s something in her voice, in the bright baby blue of her eyes, that makes him want to rush into her arms.

His legs buckle beneath him; he sinks to his knees, and she bridges the gap between them, arms outstretched.

‘Prompto,’ she says again, enfolding him in her embrace.

He lets his head drop against her; rests his cheek against her stomach, where she brushes her hands over his hair, soothing him.

‘Where did you go, my love?’ she murmurs, and her voice is like honey.

‘We’ve been looking for you.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> main tumblr | ffxv sideblog


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Prompto meets Gladiolus, at long last.

A feast is laid out on the dining room table, in honour of him. Dish after dish of sumptuous food — roasted pheasant; a hearty broth of winter vegetables; homemade bread, cakes and scones. It’s all too much for one person, yet no one else is eating.

Prompto tucks into a thick wedge of ham, coated in fragrant gravy. Beside him, Luna pats his head like she might a particularly beloved pet.

He doesn’t know why he ran away; it was very disobedient of him. All it took was Luna’s gentle touch, her sweet lips on his, to remind him of where he belongs.

‘Why must you always  _ toy _ with your food, dear?’ the man at the head of the table says.

Luna gives a petulant little sigh. When Prompto looks at her, her lips quickly form a smile, but they shift back into a pout before he looks away.

‘This one is special,’ she says. Her fingers glide through his hair, like a mother doting over her child. ‘He cares for me, truly.’

‘That’s the glamour talking.’

This is a different voice, a third — a young man who sits to the left of the older man slouched carelessly in his seat with his chin in his hand.

‘Lunafreya, love,’ the elder says. ‘I’m hungry. We’re  _ all _ hungry. You won’t even let us have a little sip.’

Prompto feels Luna’s fingers dig into his scalp. It’s sharp — painful. He makes a hurt sound and she lets go with an apologetic smile.

‘I can find another,’ Luna says. ‘I promise. Just give me time.’

Prompto leans across her, helping himself to a serving of honey-glazed carrots. When he sits back into his seat she treats him to a kiss on the cheek and he smiles blissfully through a mouthful of food.

‘Noctis,’ the elder says, rising suddenly to his feet. ‘A word.’

The young man rolls his eyes, although he stands without complaint. The two fall in line together, crossing briskly and vanishing out of the door.

‘Prompto, darling,’ Luna says. ‘Prompto, would you stop for a moment and look at me?’

Dutifully swallowing his food, Prompto turns in his seat until he’s eye to eye with her. She’s just so beautiful, with her pale hair and even paler skin. Her lips are the faintest shade of pink, like two perfect, unbruised petals of a rose. He wonders if she’ll kiss him again; he likes it when she kisses him.

She takes his hands in hers and holds them in his lap, squeezing reassuringly. Her expression is tender and loving, and he has no doubt that she cares for him just as deeply as he does for her.

‘You love me, don’t you?’ she says, her blue eyes wide with expectation.

He nods hurriedly. How could she even question it?

‘Well then,’ she says. ‘You must promise you won’t try to escape again. The others don’t understand how precious you are to me, and it’s getting harder and harder to convince them — they mean well, but they just don’t know what it’s like. Will you promise me?’

He nods again, and she lets go of one of his hands, using her fingers to gently lift up his chin. Her touch is so cold, her skin so smooth — like porcelain. Her nails graze gently down his throat and he feels her fingers press down on his pulse, making the gush of it resonate in his head.

‘Good,’ she says with a bright smile. ‘If you just do as you’re told, there’ll be no need for things to get out of hand. You were a good boy, coming back to us so willingly. I’m so sorry we had to hurt you last time.’

Prompto furrows his brow, his head fuzzy. He feels the gash throb at his temple and lifts a hand to try to touch it, but she clasps his wrist gently to stop him before he can get there.

‘Eat now, my sweet,’ she says, carefully guiding his hand back toward the table. ‘You must be famished.’

He doesn’t hesitate to obey — not with such an array of food in front of him.

He’s licking sauce from his fingers when the door swings open and clipped footsteps cross the room. He doesn’t bother to look up; the servant has a tray in his hands, and sets a teapot and china cup down beside Prompto.

‘Something to help him sleep, Lady Lunafreya,’ the servant says, and Luna waves her hand in permission.

The scent of the tea is cloying as the servant pours it, but Prompto gladly accepts it as the cup is pressed into his grasp. The first sip is sickly — earthy, almost. Prompto winces a little at the taste, although he drains it obediently.

It doesn’t take long for him to feel drowsy; when his head starts to nod, Luna takes him by the hand and helps him to his feet with a smile.

The walk is dreamlike — each footstep feels as though somebody else is moving his legs for him. He can hardly remember most of it, and finds himself suddenly under the covers in a four-poster bed, his rain-damp clothes replaced with silk pyjamas.

‘Sleep, my sweet,’ Luna says, kissing his forehead. ‘When the sun rises and sets again, I’ll be at your side once more.’

* * *

A howl startles him from his sleep — the plaintive cry of a caged animal. He sits up and looks frantically about, absorbing his surroundings, and as the shroud of sleep slips away, he can’t be sure if he dreamt the howl or not.

He’s tucked in tightly; he has to struggle out of the blankets. Once he’s free he climbs out of the bed, wincing slightly at the cold underfoot, and moves to the window.

It’s not quite light out, and the storm clouds brewing in the sky make it all the darker. From his window he can see rolling hills and scattered forests, and for a fleeting instant he tries to place where he is before Luna’s face comes back to him.

For a moment he stands there, hands poised on the windowsill, remembering the warmth of her arms — of her kiss.

It feels like he’s being pulled in two directions; when he tries to go one way, Luna’s voice tugs him the other. He has to scrub at his eyes to try to make sense of it all.

He distracts himself by looking about the room, taking in the decadent furnishings. There’s an armchair in the corner with a pile of neatly folded clothes sitting atop it. To the right, atop a bureau, is a basin of water and a fresh towel.

He bathes and dresses on autopilot, hardly noticing how cold the water is as he splashes it onto his skin. The thought occurs to him, for just a moment, that these clothes aren’t his own — that the slacks are tailored but don’t fit quite right, and the cable-knit sweater smells old and musty, as though it has sat in the back of a closet for countless seasons gone by.

When he picks it up to pull it on over his shirt, something slips from within its folds and hits the floor with a  _ ping _ , ricocheting off the boards and vanishing beneath the armchair.

Without thinking, he drops to his knees. From there he feels around on the floor, recoiling slightly as his fingers brush a dust bunny, and he only withdraws his hand once he has it closed around something small and cold.

It’s a key — old but simple, rusted in places. There’s nothing on it to identify what it’s for, or who left it for him. Frowning, he slips it into the pocket of his slacks.

Once dressed in his borrowed clothes — the shoes, at least, are his own Converse — he heads for the door.

Some instinct, some tiny, inconsequential voice tells him it will be locked; he feels a little thrill that he can’t quite explain when the knob twists and pops open without issue.

The dim daylight coming through the window at the end of the hallway isn’t enough to illuminate the span of it, and the candles along the walls are unlit. There are doors here, leading into other rooms. An image comes into his mind of another hallway, on another floor — of a dark room in which he had been trapped for hours.

His hand is poised on the doorknob, ready to shut it behind him, but he’s frozen in place.

In one ear, Luna’s voice comes soft, lulling him — willing him to return to bed, to close his eyes until he’s summoned once more; in his other is static, like a poorly-tuned radio.

It draws him forward. Compels him. Makes him move one foot after the other down the hall, toward the door at the very end, then past it down the offshoot of the corridor to the left. His stomach squirms as he reaches for the handle, and it feels so ridiculous but there’s something in his head that tells him what’s behind the door is  _ bad _ , that opening it would be  _ very bad. _

He breathes in and out, slow as he can. Closes his eyes and lets the musty smell of the centuries-old floorboards ground him.

He twists the handle until it opens, the hinges creaking as they go.

His eyes crack open. There’s nothing horrible awaiting him on the other side — just a balcony. The main hall, lit up by wan daylight streaming through windows two storeys high. The ticking of a grandfather clock, slow and measured.

All at once the warning voice, Luna’s soft but frantic words urging him to turn away, seems so ludicrous.

A hysterical little laugh bubbles up from his chest and bursts out, unbidden. He’s losing it.

He moves to the top of the stairs leading down to the lower floor, resting his hand on the rail. He can see the double doors of the entrance from here, and he knows if he tries them they’ll be locked. He tries to think, to concentrate on what he knows about this place, and even as a sweet-smelling fog comes over his thoughts, he fights it off.

He uses the ticking of the clock to anchor him. Remembers the click of footsteps moving almost in time with it. Remembers stepping through a door, heart pounding in his chest.

He takes the steps down one by one, ignoring the feeling of dread that dogs him along the way. At the bottom, he turns and moves to the door beneath the balcony, and when he tries the handle — locked — he fishes around in his pocket for the key.

It fits.

By day, the greenhouse is little more than an assortment of odd plants; he passes them by with little thought and makes for the door. Like before, it’s locked, and the key is hanging oh so helpfully from a hook beside it.

Everything is still and calm outside, unlike the night before; no wind to batter his face. He can see farther ahead between the trees with no darkness to obscure his way — can see his meandering footsteps, going this way and that, looping in and around again on themselves.

He follows them a little way and stops by a tree, resting his hand on the trunk of it. It’s easier to see now that it’s not endless forest, but rather a courtyard of sorts, overgrown by trees and vines alike.

He pushes off and wanders under the canopy, looking all around. He can see the tree with the red berries, less ominous now by daylight; several sets of footprints run by it, back and forth, all matching his shoes.

Prompto can’t help but laugh to himself, carding a hand through his hair. He was in such a fluster last night — he doesn’t even know what  _ wasn’t _ just his imagination running wild.

He’s turning back toward the house when he hears it: ragged breathing.

All at once the night before seems so real, so  _ close _ , and he has to clench his hands into fists to steady himself.

‘It’s just the wind,’ he whispers. ‘Just your mind playing tricks on you.’

He keeps telling himself that, even as he moves around the tree. Keeps telling himself that there’ll be nothing there but dirt and stray leaves of orange and brown.

He sees the feet first, covered in dirt; follows them up muscular legs covered in criss-cross gashes. He just has time to avert his gaze upwards as he realises the man curled up on the ground ahead is as naked as the day he was born.

The man’s dark hair hangs shaggy about his face, the snarls and tangles littered with leaves and dirt. Prompto takes a step closer to try to get a look at his face, but he cringes away.

Prompto stops a little away, frozen by equal parts terror and morbid curiosity.

‘Are you…’ he murmurs, his voice lost somewhere in his throat. ‘Are you okay?’

The man’s arms are crossed over himself, as if in a vain attempt at preserving his modesty. After a moment’s pause, Prompto slips off his sweater and takes baby steps closer, stopping until he’s near enough to hold it out.

‘It’s all right,’ Prompto says. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

Slowly, hesitantly, the man looks up; his amber eyes meet Prompto’s, and there’s so much pain in them — so much fear — that Prompto feels his heart lurch.

He looks down from the man’s unkempt facial hair to his angular jaw. Just beneath it is a thick chain, and Prompto follows it from where it snakes over the man’s shoulder and across the ground, to where it’s secured tightly to a tree.

He’s chained up like a dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> main tumblr | ffxv sideblog


	5. Chapter 5

The man only lets Prompto get so close before he retreats, crawling across the ground to shelter by the tree. The illusion of a wounded, beaten dog is all the more profound as he sits, cringing, his body half-hidden behind the tree’s bulk.

‘I’m gonna leave this here, okay?’ Prompto says, gesturing to the sweater in his grasp.

Carefully, he sets it down on the ground, then makes a show of backing up with big, slow steps. Once he has moved to a safe distance he stands and waits, looking away as if to study the courtyard around him.

At the corner of the vision he sees the man move; sees him wince as he readjusts the chain’s position at his throat, to give him more slack. He doesn’t pull the sweater on — he can’t, with the chain fastened around him — but he holds it up to himself, covering what little he can of his body.

It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing. At least Prompto doesn’t have to keep averting his gaze for both their sake.

Without thinking, Prompto steps toward the tree and the man flinches away again, and Prompto could almost laugh at how nonsensical it is — that this man, so big and brawny he could probably snap somebody in two, is afraid of  _ him. _

Prompto takes a wide berth around him and stops at the base of the tree, lifting the chain where it’s sealed together with a padlock. It’s a big, heavy-duty thing — too big for him to break, even if he had something to smash it with. He lets it drop and gives a soft  _ hmm _ while he thinks.

‘I guess you don’t know where the key is?’ he asks.

The man hesitates, then shakes his head.

Prompto wets his lips and glances around. Along the edge of the courtyard, a handful of garden tools stand propped against the wall. He heads over and grabs something with a flat metal head at the end of it and returns, wedging it between the tree and the padlock. He levers it, throwing all of his might into it, but it’s useless; he’d need to be twice his size to put the kind of force needed into it, and even though the man could probably pull it off, he seems to be in no fit state.

‘Okay,’ he mutters, more to himself than to the man. Still — the word attracts a raised eyebrow and Prompto clears his throat to address him. ‘I’m gonna go look for something to break this chain. I’ll be right—’

His words cut off with a choke as the man grabs him by the wrist, stopping him dead in his tracks.

He’s on his feet, the sweater discarded in the dirt with little care; by all rights his skin should be ice-cold from sitting outside without a scrap to wear, but instead his fingers burn into Prompto’s skin where they hold on impossibly tight.

‘Don’t,’ he says.

Prompto swallows, hard.

‘Don’t… Don’t leave you alone?’ he replies.

The fingers tighten, just fractionally, before letting go. The man steps back and drops, curling up once more. His hair hangs covering his face; his voice is so small Prompto has to strain to hear it.

‘Don’t try to free me.’

‘Whatever, man,’ Prompto says, shaking his head as he turns to go. ‘I’ll be right back.’

He can still feel the heat of the other’s touch as though his fingers are enclosed around his wrist; he rubs at it unconsciously as he goes.

Once at the conservatory he lets himself in and sets the gardening tool aside so that he can begin his search in earnest.

He finds a cabinet filled with more tools, with a pair of denim overalls hanging inside, caked in dirt but probably big enough for the guy to pull on. Prompto slings them over his arm and resumes his search.

Empty pots, sacks of fertiliser, watering cans — so much clutter nestled away amid the potted plants, and yet nothing of use. He’s just about to give up hope when he sees a set of bolt cutters leaning against the wall in the corner. With these in hand, and the overalls carefully nestled in the crook of his arm, he hurries back outside.

It’s been enough of a wild ride that he almost expects the man to be gone when he gets outside but there he is, still huddled by the tree. That look of fear darkens his eyes when Prompto approaches, and he pushes back across the ground until he’s nestled in against the serpentine roots.

‘Don’t,’ he says.

Prompto tosses the overalls into his lap and picks up the chain with his free hand. It’s so thick he’s afraid the cutters won’t fit around it, but he thinks he can break one of the links enough to slip it free.

He lets the chain snake through his grasps, getting closer to the man with each link; in turn, he watches as the man shrinks away. Soon there’s no chain left to separate them, and Prompto’s fingertips brush skin where the cold metal has left a pattern of bruises like ropemarks.

‘Try not to move,’ he says, slipping the jaws of the bolt cutters over one of the links. ‘I don’t wanna hurt you on accident.’

‘Wait.’

Fingers grey with dirt grip the edge of the jaws, then push them until they’re repositioned over another link in the chain. If Prompto were to cut it here, it would sever the link to the tree, but keep the loop around the man’s throat intact.

Prompto looks at him, questioning, but he merely nods; with a tip of his head, Prompto shifts the cutters until they’re in place and brings them down until a satisfying  _ clank _ tells him the deed is done.

He turns away to let the man dress; it seems backwards, but Prompto feels like it’s the least he can do to give him some dignity.

Once the stranger is dressed in the overalls and borrowed sweater, he taps Prompto gently on the shoulder, looking down at him. His eyes offer thanks where the words remain unsaid.

‘I don’t know how I got here,’ Prompto says, ‘and I’m guessing maybe you don’t either. I just wanna go home.’

‘There is no way out,’ the man says.

Prompto lifts the bolt cutters; they’re almost too heavy for him to wield, but he just about manages to hoist them up to shoulder-height.

‘Where there’s a will, there’s a way,’ he says. ‘C’mon. We’re getting out of here.’

* * *

 

Gladiolus — that was the name Prompto weaseled out of him, reluctant though he had been to part with it — is surprisingly light on his feet for someone who had just been tied up like a rabid beast outside.

Still, Prompto can’t help but feel like they’re making too much noise between them: doors swing shut too heavily, footfalls ring out too clearly across the tiles floor. Every sound, every little disturbance of the air, sets him on edge.

They’re halfway to the front door when he catches it — the slightest scent, the essence of  _ her. _

_ He’s sitting in the lecture theatre, barely managing to keep his eyes open. He had been sketching a portrait of a werewolf, all pointy ears and big, glistening fangs, but even that had begun to fail to keep his attention. _

_ The lecturer’s voice is a dull monotone, droning on and on ad infinitum until his words lose all meaning. _

_ There’s a soft cough behind him; he doesn’t register it right away, but then it comes again and this time there’s a slight pressure on his shoulder as a hand comes to rest on it. _

_ ‘Don’t fall asleep just yet,’ a voice says — it’s soft and lilting, an English accent so prim and proper that it might be austere if not for its musical tone. ‘We’ve not long left.’ _

_ ‘Easy for you to say,’ he replies, turning back to reply in a whisper. ‘I’ve already drifted off twice.’ _

_ ‘I know,’ the girl behind him says. ‘You keep jolting awake. It’s sort of adorable.’ _

A grip closes around his hand, calloused and firm, and he’s anchored back in the moment. Even as he turns to look blearily up at Gladiolus, however, he can’t shake the veil of Luna’s perfume as it winds around him.

Gladiolus is tall — tall and big and scary —- and something about the sight of him there, blotting out the sunlight streaming through the windows makes Prompto shrink back until Gladiolus lets go of him.

‘I need to…’ Prompto murmurs, shaking his head in confusion. ‘I need to go back. She’ll be mad.’

All at once Gladiolus’s face is contorted in anger, and his hand lashes out, gripping at Prompto’s shoulder.

‘Fight it,’ he growls. ‘You need to fight it.’

His grip is so hot it burns through the silk of Prompto’s shirt; his breath is ragged and hot against Prompto’s skin, and there’s something so feral and dark and  _ bad _ about him that it makes Prompto want to turn tail and run.

It was a mistake setting Gladiolus loose. He knows that now.

‘Okay,’ he says, timidly. ‘Okay, you’re right.’

Gladiolus lets go; he barely has time to withdraw his hold before Prompto grips the bolt cutters in both hands and swings them up with all his might, hitting Gladiolus square in the face.

He doesn’t stop to see what happens — he lets the cutters drop, sending them crashing to the ground with a terrible racket, and turns abruptly on his heel. His shoes squeak on the tiles as he goes and he almost loses traction, but by some fluke he keeps upright and takes off at a run.

He doesn’t know where he’s going, not really. He bursts through a door beneath the balcony, then another within. He blasts through them until he hits one that’s locked, then keeps trying others until one springs open in his grasp.

He barely manages to catch himself before he hurtles down a spiral staircase; gripping so hard at the metal rails that he feels his palms blister, he takes the steps two at a time until his feet hit solid ground.

He blunders down a pitch black hallway, bouncing into walls as he goes, and he keeps running until he hits a dead end.

It’s only here, hidden away in the darkness, that he stops and slides down to the ground, curling up small with his arms wrapped around his knees. His breath bursts out of his lungs unevenly, burning his throat as it goes, and he struggles to gulp down enough air to steady himself, to stop the terrible shaking of his limbs.

He had been so sure — so sure, in the uncertainty of his blind flight — that he would find safety down here: that he would find  _ Luna. _ Instead there is only darkness and cold, and the smell of damp and decay.

Somewhere, within the impossible blackness around him, there is a scuffling sound.

Every instinct screams at him to leap to his feet — to  _ run _ — but he fights it; swallows it down, digs his fingers through the fabric of his pants into his knees until the urge abates.

Carefully, he stretches a hand out until it hits the corner; then he shifts onto his knees, crawling forward and feeling along the bottom of the wall as he goes, until his fingers brush against the solid wood of a doorframe. 

He thinks the scuffling is getting closer now, but he bites back the yelp of terror that threatens to burst from his mouth and fumbles around, fingers climbing up the frame and across the surface of the door until he hits the cold metal of the knob.

Slowly, as quiet as a mouse, he twists it. It makes the tiniest groan of protest as he opens it, and he’s so sure the sound is magnified a hundredfold, so sure that it must ring out like a scream on a clear night.

Once it’s finally open, once he’s finally on his feet, he slips within and presses it shut, leaning back against it and allowing his breath to blow out all at once in a sigh of relief.

There’s light in here — candles, flickering in an unseen draught. There’s just enough illumination to see by, to make his way past cold slabs of stone that jut out from the ground, incongruous.

He doesn’t understand it; doesn’t quite process what he’s seeing until his eyes fall on a statue of an angel rising overhead, carved out of smooth, perfect marble, staring down upon the crypt from its lofty vantage point.

The ceiling in here is almost cavernous, so much so that it registers that he must have dashed down more stairs than he realised. He doesn’t have long to dwell on it, however, as his glance passes over something that makes his heart thunder within his chest.

Three coffins; three coffins of simple wood, arranged carefully side by side. He can see the glint of pale skin within them, shadows cast upon porcelain limbs and faces by the dancing candlelight.

He takes a step toward them, then another. His hands tremble at his sides and, not for the first time, he feels the urge to scream — yet he keeps going, one foot in front of the other, and he doesn’t know when he’ll stop.

He’s about a meter away from the first, close enough to see white-blonde hair and a beautiful face in peaceful repose when a weight presses up behind him. Arms slip around him, strong and unyielding, and a hand claps over his mouth before he can even think to shout.

The fingers are rough; they smell like soil.

Lips brush his ear, warm and cracked.

‘Don’t. Move.’

He feels Gladiolus’s chest rise and fall against his back as they stand, stock-still, as if waiting for something to happen.

Gradually, tentatively, as though afraid Prompto might flee — and it’s no sure thing that he  _ won’t _ — Gladiolus loosens one of his arms from around him and lifts it, his finger pointing.

Prompto follows it to the coffins, past the one where his dear, beloved Luna lies so frightfully still that it makes his heart ache; past the young man at her side, deathly pale but so handsome with his dark hair artfully scattered about his face.

The third coffin lies just beyond, and on closer inspection it's more ornate than the other two, with gold filigree adorning its edges.

With a horrible jolt, Prompto realises it’s empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	6. Chapter 6

The hand remains clamped over Prompto’s mouth; he tugs at it, and it’s only once he nods his head in assurance that he won’t shout that Gladiolus lets it drop.

He moves toward Luna, but Gladiolus grabs his wrist and pulls him close.

‘Whatever spell she’s got you under,’ Gladiolus growls, ‘it’s not real. You need to fight it.’

Prompto yanks his wrist free with a scowl.

His head is a little clearer now — the sight of Gladiolus doesn’t make his stomach clench with fear, at least — but all this talk of  _ fighting it _ , as if Luna were something to be afraid of, is unsettling. How can Gladiolus talk about her like that when she’s lying there, so innocent and helpless, as if waiting to be awoken with a kiss?

‘Is she asleep?’ he whispers.

Gladiolus rolls his shoulders, like he’s trying to get rid of an itch.

‘Something like that,’ he replies. ‘Once they’re down they’re usually good until dusk, but with Regis around we’re not safe here.’

Prompto narrows his eyes.

‘Regis?’

‘The lord of the manor,’ Gladiolus says, with a sneer. ‘Luna might have a soft spot for you, but Regis won’t be so gentle if he finds you wandering outside your room.’

Prompto folds his arms, making a futile attempt at rubbing some warmth into himself. He can remember snatches of the man — foggy and faint, as if it were a dream. The memory of him is unsettling.

‘How did you get out, anyway?’ Gladiolus asks.

Prompto shakes his head. He remembers waking up and dressing; remembers the door being already unlocked.

‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘The door was open when I woke up.’

Gladiolus narrows his eyes. It seems like he might say more, but he just turns away and looks toward the door.

‘We should get out of here,’ he says. ‘I don’t plan on running into Regis any time soon.’

He starts for the exit, but jerks to a halt when he realises Prompto isn’t following.

‘What are you waiting for?’

‘I can’t leave Luna here,’ Prompto says.

One minute Gladiolus is a few feet away, frustration darkening his features; the next he’s in front of Prompto, gripping his arm as he leans close.

‘Don’t you understand?’ he snarls. ‘She’s  _ one of them. _ It might be all sweet kisses now, but how long before she gets bored of you? How long before  _ they _ get sick of waiting?’

‘One of…  _ them? _ ’ Prompto stammers, shaking his head. Gladiolus’s is gripping too tight, his fingers cutting into Prompto’s flesh, but when he tries to pull away he can’t. ‘I don’t… I don’t understand.’

‘You still don’t get it?’

Gladiolus pulls Prompto by the wrist, dragging him across the room; he tugs Prompto’s arm until it’s close to one of the candles — so close it seems he intends to burn him — and stops just short.

‘See this?’ Gladiolus hisses.

Prompto looks; all he can see is Gladiolus’s fingers gripped tight around his flesh.

He moves to shake his head, but Gladiolus yanks harder at his wrist and glares at him, tapping his skin with his other hand.

‘There,’ he prompts. ‘Look again.  _ Really  _ look.’

Prompto whines — Gladiolus is starting to hurt him, and he doesn’t even know what he’s supposed to be seeing anyway. It’s stupid, really; he should just go wake Luna up, should just beg her to take him back to his room.

Except… 

It’s just his wrist, he thinks — but it’s like his eyes keep trying to skip over it, like there’s a big  _ Nothing To See Here _ stamped into his skin.

He fights it, even though it makes his head throb, and when he finally  _ looks _ , by the flickering light of the candle, he can see two puncture marks, swollen and not yet scabbed over. When he touches it, his skin is so tender he recoils.

Gladiolus lets go and lifts his hand, touching it to Prompto’s throat before he has a chance to flinch away. Where his warm fingers brush, Prompto feels that same tenderness, that same sting of pain.

‘There, too,’ Gladiolus says. ‘You know what’s happening, Prompto. You know what she is. What she’s doing to you.’

‘But she loves me,’ Prompto murmurs. ‘And I— I—’ 

He can’t get it out — can’t spit out the words that cloy in the back of his throat. When he moves his hand to where Gladiolus’s is at his neck, and brushes it against the lacerations there, the words fall away until he can hardly remember what he had meant to say.

‘We need to get you out of here, Prompto,’ Gladiolus says, stooping to look him in the eye. ‘The longer you stay, the harder it’ll get to fight it. You’ve lasted longer than any of her other thralls, and I think maybe somebody’s trying to help you — but you’ll give in soon. They always do.’

_ Thralls. _ The word echoes in Prompto’s head and even though he knows what it means, what all of it means, he still asks.

‘What are they?’ he whispers.

‘I was so sure you’d have figured it out by now.’

Prompto watches Gladiolus’s head snap toward the sound of the new voice; watches his face pale.

Prompto’s stomach churns as he turns to look, already knowing what he’ll see.

The man is half in shadow, and Prompto can’t help but wonder if he was there all along in his black attire, his cape draped over one shoulder.

_ Regis. _

‘I must admit,’ the man says, stepping forward until he’s beside one of the coffins, ‘much as it peeved me when Lunafreya brought you in with her delusions of keeping you as a  _ pet _ , I’ve grown curious as I’ve watched you shake off her hold again and again. It wasn’t until I had a taste for myself that I knew what was so special about you.’

The puncture wounds on Prompto’s neck — they’re much deeper, more forceful than the ones at his wrist. He shivers, and feels Gladiolus move a step closer to him.

‘You feel it too, don’t you?’ Regis taunts, his eyes on Gladiolus.

Prompto flicks a glance up at Gladiolus; his teeth are gritted as he stares at Regis, his hands in fists at his side.

‘Well?’ Regis says. ‘Speak when you are spoken to.’

Gladiolus’s voice is low and careful, and Prompto finds himself straining to hear it.

‘No,’ Gladiolus says. ‘I don’t.’

Regis laughs, sharp and mocking, and the sound is so sudden Prompto feels a flash of fear that he’ll wake the sleeping man in the coffin at his side.

‘Now  _ that’s _ a lie if I’ve ever heard one,’ Regis says, and he almost looks amused. ‘Perhaps you’re ignoring it, but that won’t last for long. He’s really rather hard to resist.’

As Regis takes another step forward, he pats delicately at his lips with his fingertips; Prompto has a sudden image of the man standing over his bed and doing the same, his mouth stained blood-red.

‘You can hear it rushing through his veins,’ Regis says. ‘You can  _ smell _ it. You can feel your heart quickening at the thought of how good he’d taste.’

At Prompto’s side, Gladiolus tenses. His breathing is heavy now, barely restrained.

‘Lunafreya would never forgive me if I hurt her little  _ doll _ ,’ Regis spits, with a glance toward where she lies, oblivious. ‘But I’m sure she’d forgive the hound his indiscretion. You’re only an  _ animal _ , after all.’

‘Stop,’ Gladiolus says, through gritted teeth.

Regis cocks his head. He steps closer now, close enough that Prompto can see the glint of his teeth in the candlelight — fangs, sharp enough to pierce skin.

‘Stop what?’ Regis says, raising his hands palms-up. ‘I’m merely telling you to give in to your nature. To stop ignoring your  _ hunger. _ ’

He halts in front of them and rests a hand on each of their cheeks. His touch is impossibly cold, and as much as Prompto wants to shudder and recoil, he  _ can’t _ — he’s rooted in place.

Beside him, Gladiolus twists to look at him, but as Prompto moves to meet his glance he finds Gladiolus isn’t looking at his eyes, but down at his throat.

Gladiolus licks his lips.

‘Do you seek my permission?’ Regis says. ‘Share this meal with me, hound. Do as your nature bids.’

Prompto feels like his lungs have stopped working. He knows he should say something,  _ anything, _ to stop this; yet even as Gladiolus leans close, the heat of his breath brushing against Prompto’s throat, he does nothing.

Gladiolus’s mouth is warm as it presses to Prompto’s neck, so much like a lover’s kiss if not for the graze of teeth against the wound there.

An arm winds around Prompto’s waist, hand pressing into the small of his back to bolster him.

He realises, dimly, that it’s Gladiolus — and then pain lances through him as something sharp and hot pierces his throat, dizzying and agonising.

A choked gasp bubbles out of his mouth; it feels like the very life leaches from him.

‘Now now, pet,’ Regis says, his voice by Prompto’s ear. ‘I’ll make it so it doesn’t hurt.’

Pain erupts at the other side of Prompto’s throat, and he almost buckles — but Regis is at one side of him, holding him up, and Gladiolus is there, arm keeping him upright.

Regis is true to his word; after a while, a pleasant warmth begins to flow through Prompto, filling his veins from the new wound at the side of his neck. He begins to feel like he’s floating and he sinks, woozy, into the arms of the two men at either side of him.

He feels Gladiolus’s absence at his side as cold air rushes to fill the gap between them; almost whines in protest, but a fresh flood of warmth washes over him and he lets his eyelids flutter closed, content to drift away…

There’s a low sound, like the purr of a cat. With it comes a snapping sound like the crunching of bones, like the tearing of fabric — of flesh. He hears these things, and a little voice buried away in his thoughts tells him to  _ run _ , but even as the purr grows to the roar of an engine he cannot move.

He feels something soft brush his hand, the pelt of an animal, and then something hits him in the chest so hard it knocks the air from him.

He stumbles backward, powerless to keep himself upright; topples to the cold ground and stays where he falls, his head in a daze.

_ ‘GO!’ _

It’s not a voice; it’s a strangled roar that his brain struggles to make sense of. When he tries to open his eyes they feel heavy as though shrouded in sleep, and what he sees doesn’t do much to convince him he isn’t dreaming.

The beast is there, rearing up on two legs — at once an animal and yet not. 

Prompto wonders, blearily, where Gladiolus is, but even as his curiosity turns to worry, all thoughts flee his head as the beast rushes forward and collides full force with Regis where he stands.

The beast hits with enough momentum to flip a car, yet Regis only moves a few feet. There’s an inhuman sound, like the shriek of a wildcat, and Regis swings his hand at the beast.

Blood springs up on the beasts’ pelt where Regis’s nails lash across its flank; it gives out a pained snarl, and Prompto feels it vibrate through his chest as he struggles, blearily, to sit up.

Blinking, Prompto presses a hand to his throat where he feels liquid trickle down his skin. He can only stare at his fingertips in wonderment, at the red staining them; somewhere deep in his thoughts a voice whispers  _ blood _ and he can’t quite piece together what it means.

Feet away, the beast stoops low to gain traction, then pounces on Regis — finally the man is moved, sent hurtling by several hundred pounds of feral animal, and the marble slab behind him cracks from the force of the collision.

It should be enough to kill him, yet he’s alive and well enough to give a bellow of rage that makes Prompto’s hair stand on end. He can only watch as Regis throws himself at the beast and they fall to the ground with a crash that echoes through the room.

Prompto knows he has to get away, somehow — the realisation hits him with a sobering rush of adrenaline.

His legs are jelly when he tries to stand and he has to fight to get them to obey, but steadily he clambers to his feet, using one of the gravestones beside him for support. His head throbs once he’s upright and he knows it would be so easy to sink to his knees, to drift into sleep, but he  _ can’t. _

Across the room, Regis is fighting back, steadily gaining ground.

Prompto throws a glance toward the door. It’s on his side of the room, so he should be able to make it without attracting the attention of either of the two where they grapple. He edges his foot out to the side, tentatively putting weight on it, and when his leg doesn’t give out beneath him he takes another step.

Across the room, the beast roars — and it sounds like a voice. Gladiolus’s voice.

His head snaps toward the sound and he can see the beast, rearing back; Regis advances upon it and just beyond it Prompto can see a young man, and beside him the tail of a floating white skirt that he knows, with a pang, is Luna’s.

They’re pinning the beast, between the two of them; restraining it, somehow. Prompto sees a flash of silver in the candlelight, sees Luna’s hands clasping two ends of a chain, holding it to the beast’s throat in a chokehold.

The chain, Prompto realises. The one that had been fastened around Gladiolus’s neck.

_ Of course. _

‘Know your place, hound,’ Luna says with a snarl.

The beast is looking at him, its amber eyes flitting fearfully between Prompto’s, and the door.

Prompto’s mind whirrs, taking everything in: the beast in the courtyard, feral by night, where it could so easily have torn out his throat and yet chose to let him go; finding Gladiolus chained up outside by day, naked and filthy and terrified.        

The beast —  _ Gladiolus _ — wants him to flee, to escape without him, and yet seeing him so helpless now, bleeding and beaten, Prompto can’t seem to move.

Regis moves toward the beast, hand drawn back to show off talons that glint in the candlelight. The other man, younger and unmistakably Regis’s son, bares his teeth at Gladiolus with a hiss.

They’ll tear him to shreds.

As Regis brings his arm back, ready to swing it at Gladiolus’s throat, Prompto stumbles forward to stop him.

‘No!’ he screams, and the sound of his voice seems to ripple like a shockwave through the room.

Luna’s head snaps toward him, her arms momentarily going slack, and in that moment of distraction Gladiolus twists and shoves her out of the way with force that sends her flying, her delicate body crumpling as it falls.

Prompto scarcely has time to stare, open-mouthed, before a shape of fur and sinew launches itself at him; Gladiolus hits him so hard his jaws snap painfully together, wrapping one great limb around Prompto and pulling him into his embrace.

It’s like this, cradling Prompto into his chest, that Gladiolus flees, swiping the door right off its hinges as he flings it open.

The hallway breezes by, dark and disorienting, and all Prompto can do is curl in toward Gladiolus’s chest, clinging close to the glossy fur there. Beneath the great ribcage, Prompto can feel Gladiolus’s heartbeat thrumming heavy and low, a beacon in the dark.

Gladiolus takes them on a whirlwind sprint through the manor — Prompto can hear wood splintering as doors are torn from their hinges, as they’re flung aside as though they were nothing at all.

Prompto glances up to see the ceiling of the main hall far above, the chandelier glittering in the daylight; then Gladiolus pulls him in tightly, shielding him, and Prompto instinctively braces himself.

Glass shatters like crystal all around; a stray shard slices across Prompto’s face, another opening a gouge across his forearm.

He buries his face into the fur in front of him, stifling the sharp gasp of pain, and feels Gladiolus clutch him tighter in turn.

Wind whips past them as they go — when Prompto finally dares to lift his head, he sees fields and trees fly by, little more than a blur of green in their wake.

The air is cold as he gulps down a breath of it; it tastes like freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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	7. Chapter 7

The sound of the shower running is soothing — like the trickling of rain down a window. Prompto lies back on his bed and stares up at the ceiling of his room, watching the light move across its surface as the sun slowly sets.

By the time Gladiolus returns, Prompto’s eyes are heavy.

He sits up, appraising the man’s appearance. He’s in clothes snatched from the closet of one of Prompto’s roommates — they’re as close in build as he could hope, and even though the t-shirt strains a little at Gladiolus’s muscular arms, it’s better than nothing.

Awkwardly, Gladiolus stands in the doorway, running a hand through his wet hair.

‘Come in,’ Prompto says, waving him over. ‘Sit down.’

While Prompto moves over, making room on the bed, Gladiolus steps in and closes the door behind him. He seems so out of place in here, surrounded by Prompto’s things — so uncomfortable in his own skin. His glance keeps flitting around, like he’s looking for possible threats.

‘Sit down,’ Prompto says again. ‘You need to rest.’

Gladiolus had refused to let him look at his wounds — had said they would heal. When he finally takes a seat, Prompto can see that the one at his shoulder, just visible by the collar of his shirt, has already begun to close.

Prompto has so many questions, least of which is what Gladiolus _is_ exactly, yet he’s sure he knows without needing to ask.

‘You’re bleeding,’ Gladiolus says, touching a hand gently to the slash across Prompto’s cheek.

Prompto had tried to patch it up using the makeshift first-aid kit he and his roommates keep in the kitchen; it must have split open in the meantime.

‘It’s okay,’ he says. ‘After everything I’ve been through, I doubt this is gonna be what kills me.’

He thinks he sees a little hint of a smile on Gladiolus’s lips, but the man turns away before he can be sure.

‘You tired?’ Prompto asks.

He takes the opportunity to study Gladiolus’s face while he’s looking away; exhaustion seems to be written into his features, yet he’s twitchy like he feels as though he can’t yet rest.

Gladiolus shakes his head.

‘I don’t need much sleep,’ he says.

‘Well, _I_ do,’ Prompto says, with a sheepish grin, ‘and I’m beat. You cool if I crash for a little while?’

Gladiolus meets his eye; slowly, he nods.

They haven’t discussed what they’re doing yet — where Gladiolus intends to go. When Prompto had asked if he had a home to go to, he hadn’t replied.

Prompto wriggles out of his jeans and sets them carefully aside, ignoring the slacks and shirt from the manor where they lie in a heap on the floor, discarded before he showered. It’s so strange to think that they belonged to someone at the manor — that the past twenty-four hours, maybe longer, haven’t been some figment of his imagination.

When he climbs under the covers, Gladiolus makes to move; Prompto reaches out a hand to stop him, clutching fretfully at his wrist.

He can’t be alone — not yet. With Gladiolus being close, he feels a little safer.

‘Will you stay?’ he says. ‘Just until I fall asleep?’

Grimly, Gladiolus nods.

Prompto curls up, nestling into the familiar smell of his pillow, and for a little while he just looks around, taking in all the posters on his walls, all the nerdy merchandise perched around his desk. Normally he might be embarrassed by a stranger seeing his room, but after what they’ve been through he can’t seem to care.

Reflexively, he touches the wound at his throat — the one Gladiolus tore wider with his teeth.

‘I’m sorry,’ Gladiolus says quietly. ‘It was the only way. I would have explained if I could, but there was no time.’

‘It’s okay,’ Prompto murmurs. In a strange way, he means it. ‘I’d still be stuck in that place if I wasn’t for you.’

Gladiolus looks away, down at his hands in his lap.

‘Me too,’ he says.

It’s hard not to think of what happened in the crypt: of Gladiolus’s mouth at his throat. For a moment, Prompto had been so sure that it was the end, that all he had to do was give in and let it happen.

‘What did—’ he says, cutting off so that he can sit up. ‘What did Regis mean? About it… running through my veins?’

He sees Gladiolus’s face darken, and he expects the man to brush him off. Instead, Gladiolus turns toward him, meeting his eye.

‘There’s something about you,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Something about your blood. They’ve trapped so many humans in their walls over the years, but you’re different.’

He reaches out, gently taking Prompto’s wrist; he turns it over to expose the puncture marks on the underside, then lets go.

‘They never keep their prey,’ he says. ‘They drain them, then they have Ignis get rid of their table scraps.’

Prompto feels a chill wash over him.

‘They’ve taken so many,’ Gladiolus continues, shaking his head angrily. ‘Some survived longer than others, but it’s always the same.’

Prompto blows out a breath. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding it.

‘Ignis,’ he says. ‘Who is that?’

‘Their servant,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Human. I thought he was loyal to them, but started helping in small ways, to make my life easier. They made him collar me like a dog, but he was always gentle.’

Prompto thinks of the chain that had been clasped around Gladiolus’s neck, trapping him. Thinks of the bruises at his throat, long since healed even though it’s barely been hours.

‘The chain,’ Prompto says. ‘When Luna used it, it looked like it hurt you.’

Gladiolus sighs.

‘Silver,’ he says. ‘In my own skin, it’s nothing... but when the beast takes over, it burns its flesh. They use it to control me, to make sure I can’t shift into that form.’

It checks out, at least according to what Prompto knows of werewolf lore. It’s still bizarre to think that any of it — _all_ of it — is real.

‘How long have they kept you there?’ he asks, unsure he wants to know the answer.

‘Too long,’ Gladiolus replies.

Prompto watches as the man looks down with a weary sigh.

He looks away from Gladiolus and down at his own wrist, where the wound mars his pale skin. Now, away from Luna’s influence, he feels fear and anger at the thought of her trapping him in the walls of her manor, to be her pet until she grew tired of him. Yet her voice seems to beckon to him even now, a siren’s call.

‘It was your blood that let me break the chain,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Like a shot of adrenaline. I think that was what Regis meant, about it calling to me — but even he couldn’t have known how it would affect me.’

‘So my blood is like crack for vampires and werewolves?’ Prompto says, giving a cynical laugh.

Gladiolus looks up at him, his expression dark.

‘Whatever you are, whatever it is that makes you so special,’ he says, ‘they won’t let you walk away so easily.’

With the setting sun, it seems that the room has grown that much colder; Prompto shudders, wrapping his arms around himself.

‘So what do we do?’ he asks meekly.

 _'We_ do nothing,’ Gladiolus says. ‘If they come here in the night, they can’t enter without your invitation. When the sun rises I’ll return to their nest and kill them.’

His tone brooks no argument; any protests Prompto’s might make fall dead before they reach his lips.

Silently, he slips under the covers once more, pulling his blanket up to his chin.

‘Are you sure they can’t get in?’ he says.

Gladiolus inclines his head.

‘Not unless you invite them in. As long as you resist their call, you’ll be safe.’

The thought doesn’t offer much comfort — not when Prompto has fallen under Luna’s spell so many times already. He just hopes Gladiolus can protect him, if worse comes to worst.

* * *

 

_Her eyes are pale and bulging; her cool, pink lips are at his throat._

_He wants to push her away, to run, but her hands are soft at his hips, so soft…_

_The others are watching, greedy tongues wetting greedy lips, and he knows that once Luna’s had her fill of him, they won’t be so gentle._ _Yet he can’t bring himself to go, can’t bring himself to stop her when she feels so good._

_‘Now, my sweet,’ she murmurs, breaking away to murmur into his ear. ‘Isn’t that better?’_

_He can see them moving, like rippling shadows; can see them coming for him, ready to have their share. When he tries, drowsily, to move, she has him pinned down._

_Her fangs drip with crimson, her breath ripe with the tang of copper._

He’s not dreaming, he realises, but Luna still traps him — still pins him, so try as he might he can’t slip away.

He’s thrashing around, trying to get free, heart hammering in his chest. He’s in so much of a panic that he doesn’t see Gladiolus in the darkness at first, doesn’t hear his soft voice.

He realises, with a jolt, that it’s not Luna trapping him: it’s the covers, tangled around his limbs. Gladiolus is there, hand place gently but firmly on his shoulder, and he looks intently into Prompto’s eyes.

‘It’s all right,’ Gladiolus says. ‘You were dreaming. You’re safe.’

Prompto wants to throw his arms around those broad shoulders; wants to nestle in close, so that Gladiolus’s warmth chases away the last echoes of his dream.

He sits up, running a hand through sweat-slick hair, and sighs.

‘Right,’ he murmurs. ‘Just a dream.’

Gladiolus moves his hand cautiously to cover his; the weight of it is comforting.

‘It’ll get better,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Just gotta sweat it out.’

His hand is gone the next moment. Prompto misses its warmth.

‘I’ll be right back,’ Prompto says quietly, slipping out of bed.

He looks like death, when he dares to inspect his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His face is gaunt, his eyes sunken; twin wounds on either side of his throat have erupted into bruises that anyone else might mistake for love bites.

He gulps down a few handfuls of water and splashes some on his face. Blood whirls away down the drain, from the cut on his cheek.

When he returns to his room, Gladiolus is sitting with his back to the bed. He stares up at the window, his face bathed in moonlight.

Carefully, Prompto moves and settles himself beside him, tugging the blanket down to cover his knees.

Gladiolus seems lost in thought, as though his eyes don’t take in the view of the night sky. Prompto can’t help but speculate what runs through his head — whether he’s going over the day’s events, or planning his return to the manor.

Suddenly, Prompto doesn’t want him to go back. He knows that asking him not to is pointless.

‘What’s it like?’ he says quietly. ‘When you… change?’

‘Agony,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Like being torn limb from limb, and when you get put back together it’s all wrong.’

Prompto closes his eyes and tries to imagine; when he opens them again, Gladiolus is watching him.

‘Is it… scary?’ he murmurs.

Gladiolus tips his head.

‘Sometimes. At the full moon, when I can’t control it. Or when I’m… angry.’

‘Is that why you made me keep the chain around your neck?’ Prompto asks, cocking his head. ‘Back in the courtyard. You were scared you’d hurt me?’

Wordlessly, Gladiolus nods.

Prompto wonders what it feels like to be drawn to somebody, the way Luna is to him — to crave the thrum of blood through someone’s veins, just below the surface of their skin. He had seen the need in Gladiolus’s eyes, back in the crypt; had watched him try to fight it.

It could have all turned out so differently, yet he feels safe even now, at Gladiolus’s side.

‘Is there a cure?’ he murmurs.

Gladiolus says nothing; it’s all the answer he needs.

Prompto can see it in Gladiolus’s expression — something mournful. When the beast takes over, he’s a force to be reckoned with, yet here he sits: a man, with his own worries and fears.

Suddenly, he seems very small and vulnerable.

Prompto stretches a hand out, cautiously; touches it to Gladiolus’s arm and finds himself surprised, as always, by the heat of his skin. He can remember the burn of Gladiolus’s lips on his throat, in the moment before it had turned to pain.

He looks up into Gladiolus’s eyes and finds him staring back, his eyes dark. Looks at his lips; sees Gladiolus lick them reflexively. He slides his fingers down Gladiolus’s arm, taking his hand and edging closer to him, until his knee touches the other man’s thigh.

‘Prompto,’ Gladiolus says, voice hoarse. ‘You’re coming down from their venom. That’s all this is.’

It seems cruel to write Prompto’s feelings off so easily — to dismiss them as little more than a fabrication. Prompto shakes his head.

‘It’s not,’ he murmurs.

‘You’re scared,’ Gladiolus protests. ‘You don’t know what you’re doing.’

Again, Prompto shakes his head.

‘I do,’ he says. ‘And I know what I want.’

He expects Gladiolus to argue, but when he leans forward and seeks out Gladiolus’s lips, he finds them ready and eager.

In beast form, Gladiolus had been anything but gentle — a hulking mass of muscle and fur and animal instinct. Yet when he had carried Prompto and fled from the manor, he had held him as though he were fragile, cradling him close.

He’s just as tentative now, as he slips one hand up to cup Prompto’s cheek; just as tender, as he twists his other wrist to lace their fingers together.

Prompto hums pleasantly against Gladiolus’s lips, and feels the man’s hand squeeze his own. Moving, he presses a palm to Gladiolus’s chest and pushes him back.

Gladiolus breaks away to look him in the eye, brow raised, but Prompto silences any questions he might utter by climbing astride his lap.

Prompto stretches, pulling his shirt off, and tosses it aside; feels Gladiolus’s hands come to rest in the curve of his waist, thumbs stroking over his skin. The contact makes him shudder, spurs him to lean forward, draping his arms around Gladiolus’s shoulders and meeting his mouth in a kiss.

It feels like there’s a crushing inevitability to it all — like every kiss, every touch leads them down a path they can’t come back from. Gladiolus plans to leave, alone, when morning comes; Prompto has already decided he’s not letting him out of his sight.

When he rises to his feet, he reaches out for Gladiolus’s hand and pulls him up. Once he’s standing, Prompto tugs at his shirt, lifting the hem of it enough to brush his fingers through the thick, dark curls on his abdomen.

‘We gotta keep quiet, okay?’ Prompto says, once Gladiolus has yanked his own shirt over his head. ‘The bed’s kinda… noisy.’

Gladiolus gives a little chuckle and the sound is so unfamiliar that it almost startles Prompto, but he decides he likes it.

‘I’ll keep that in mind,’ Gladiolus says, with a smirk.

Carefully, minding the creaking springs, Prompto climbs on top of the covers and lies back, looking up at the other man. He thumbs at the band of his boxer-briefs; sees Gladiolus’s gaze follow the movement of his hand, sees him lick his lips.

Prompto has to fight not to squirm where he lies — not to beg Gladiolus to come closer already.

When Gladiolus does, finally, he stretches out alongside Prompto and runs gentle fingertips up Prompto’s side, making his skin erupt into goosebumps.

It’s almost ridiculous seeing him in this bed, made for somebody so much shorter and smaller than him, but he doesn’t seem to care as he leans close to initiate another kiss.

Prompto runs a hand over Gladiolus’s chest, over the planes of him. He’s mindful of the wounds etched into Gladiolus’s skin, but they’re already healing — almost entirely gone. He knows it should scare him, should make his head spin, but everything he’s seen about monsters in horror movies could never prepare him for the reality of it.

Here Gladiolus is, real flesh and blood. Warm and strong and _good._

Gladiolus pushes him onto his back and kneels over him, a hand skirting over Prompto’s hip. His touch is teasing, like he’s waiting for permission.

At this, Prompto takes Gladiolus’s hand and pulls it down, using it to cup between his legs, through the fabric of his underwear. The contact makes him shudder, makes him lift his hips up to Gladiolus’s touch as he slips his hand into Gladiolus’s hair, tugging him down into a kiss.

Prompto knows he’s not an expert; knows that his hands are awkward and fumbling, his kisses over-eager. Gladiolus seems to know just where to touch, just where to kiss, but he shows what he likes, too, guiding Prompto’s trembling fingers and eager tongue to where he wants them.

When Prompto brings him to his completion, a growl of raw pleasure issues from deep within Gladiolus’s throat. It’s a good sound — so different from the feral noises made by the beast that he plays host to.

Gladiolus tends to him, in turn, glance never leaving his; Prompto finds his climax with Gladiolus’s amber eyes burning down into his own.

It’s over too quickly, but Prompto doesn’t care as he settles down in Gladiolus’s embrace, taking in the musky scent of his skin.

With Gladiolus’s arms wrapped protectively around him, he drifts into sleep: safe and content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This bad boy is so close to being done I can almost taste it!
> 
> I absolutely did not expect it to last this long, but here we are a little under a month before Christmas, still very much in Halloween fic land.
> 
> Here's hoping the boys enjoy the last of the calm before the storm c:

There’s a strange quality to the dawn light when Prompto wakes the next morning: yellow-grey, as though filtered through dishwater clouds. Frost rims the edges of his window frame when he lifts his head up just enough to look, and he knows that if he were to crawl out of bed the chill of the air would drive him right back in.

He has no intention of leaving, at any rate; Gladiolus’s arm is draped over him, his chest rising and falling steadily against his back.

Silently, he sinks back into Gladiolus’s embrace and closes his eyes.

When he opens them again, an hour or more must have passed. The sun has fully risen, although the clouds are thick enough to strangle the light. There’s a cold draught behind him where Gladiolus had once lain; when he glances around fearfully, the man is nowhere to be found.

Prompto’s heart sinks with disquiet. He feels the telltale tang of nausea in the back of his throat as he rises, hardly noticing the cold, and hurriedly yanks on his clothes.

There’s noise in the kitchen when he steps into the hall — he rushes toward it, but when he bursts through the door it’s just his roommate, Alec, cooking breakfast. A frying pan hisses and spits on top of the stove and the smell of frying bacon is alluring, but he can’t even think about eating.

‘Did you—’ he blurts, cutting himself off.

What?  _ Did you see my werewolf houseguest wandering around when you got up this morning? _

Alec turns and looks at him quizzically.

‘Hey, stranger,’ he says, with his soft Edinburgh drawl. ‘Thought you’d forgotten you lived here.’

It hadn’t even occurred to Prompto that he’s been missing all this time, however long it might have been — that he’s cut classes, that he’s vanished from everybody’s lives. He didn’t even think to give Cindy or Cor the heads-up to let them know he’s okay.

‘Can’t say I blame you, though,’ Alec adds, with something of a theatrical sigh. ‘Mr. Dishy must’ve been hard to resist.’

Prompto feels his eyebrows raise of their own accord.

‘Mr… Dishy?’

When Alec looks at him, there’s shrewdness in his eyes; he uses his spatula, dripping with grease, to point accusingly at Prompto.

‘You know  _ exactly _ who I’m talking about, so don’t play innocent with me,’ he counters. ‘What was his name again? Something lovely and foreign?’

‘Gladiolus,’ Prompto says.

Another dreamy sigh from Alec, then he turns back to his food.

‘Right,’ he says. ‘He said you wouldn’t be up for a while, but to tell you he’s popped to the shops for a bit.’

Relief floods through Prompto’s veins, and it’s almost dizzying. He leans against the fridge, dropping his cheek against the cool expanse of it and closing his eyes.

_ He’ll come back, _ he tells himself.  _ He isn’t gone. _

‘Thanks, dude,’ he says.

He pushes off from the fridge, heading toward the counter by the stove; while Alec is distracted he snatches a piece of bacon from the plate beside him, snatching his hand back in time just to avoid a slap from the spatula.

‘Cheeky prick,’ Alec mutters. Then, louder: ‘And don’t think I didn’t notice you let him borrow my clothes!’

* * *

He’s showered and dressed by the time Gladiolus gets back; the past hour has been spent Googling everything he can about vampires and their purported weaknesses. He thinks he has a good enough grasp on it, having taken down more notes than he ever has during a lecture, when the door opens and Gladiolus steps inside.

Gladiolus looks a little sheepish as he stretches a hand out with a wallet in his grasp. Prompto realises, with something between mortification and amusement, that it’s Alec’s.

‘Why do I get the feeling he doesn’t know you took that?’ Prompto says, stepping over to slip it from Gladiolus’s hand.

‘I’ll pay him back,’ Gladiolus says hurriedly.

Prompto waits only as long as it takes for Gladiolus to shut the door behind him; with the  _ click _ resonating through the air, Prompto tosses the wallet on the bed and moves toward Gladiolus, stretching up on the tips of his toes and slipping his arms around Gladiolus’s neck to drag him into a kiss.

A soft thud sounds out as something falls to the floor. When Prompto looks, there’s a linen bag there, its contents bulging through the material.

‘What’d you get?’

Gladiolus stoops, picking it up, and leads Prompto by the hand toward the bed. They sit close enough that their breaths can mingle as Gladiolus takes out the supplies, one by one.

There are two bottles made of green glass, with crosses etched into their surface — holy water, Prompto assumes. Next, Gladiolus withdraws two pieces of wood, each about a foot long, cylindrical and pointed at one end.

‘Stakes?’ Prompto says, with a laugh. ‘Like Buffy?’

Gladiolus looks at him blankly. He doesn’t seem to get the reference.

Next is a torch and batteries, and an assortment of tools. Prompto eyes them all with interest, not entirely sure what the latter are for, although he can guess at their use.

Last of all is a small box made of plain blue cardboard with the Scottish thistle stamped on the top.

‘Close your eyes,’ Gladiolus says.

Curiosity prickles at Prompto but he does as he’s told.

He feels the bedsprings sink beneath him; hears them strain as Gladiolus moves. With a gentle touch, Gladiolus turns him slightly so that Prompto’s back is to him.

Prompto hears him open the box, then hears a rustling sound. Gladiolus’s hand touches his shoulder tenderly, and the warmth of it makes the cold of whatever brushes Prompto’s neck all the more pronounced. He manages to sit still, however, and realises that it’s a chain as Gladiolus fastens it at the nape of his neck.

‘There,’ Gladiolus murmurs.

He chases his words with a kiss pressed to Prompto’s neck, above where the chain sits.

Prompto shivers, letting his eyes flutter open.

It’s a cross, he realises, as his fingers seek it out. Small, but close enough around his throat that he can feel it sitting there reassuringly.

‘It’s silver,’ Gladiolus says. ‘It doesn’t hurt them like it does the beast, but they’re not fans of it either. Crosses’ll do the trick either way.’

‘Gladio,’ Prompto says, with a shake of his head. He looks into the other man’s eyes, finding his hand and clasping it. ‘Can we… not talk about them, for a little while?’

Gladiolus nods and leans down, and Prompto opens his mouth readily to him.

When they finally break from one another after what feels like an eternity, Gladiolus strokes Prompto’s cheek and looks into his eyes with something like wonderment in his glance.

‘Nobody’s called me Gladio in a very long time,’ he says. 

Prompto flushes.

‘Oh!’ he blurts. ‘I’m sorry, I can stop if you—’

Gladiolus cuts him off with a shake of his head. His thumb runs gently over Prompto’s cheek, carefully avoiding the cut there.

‘You don’t have to stop,’ he says. ‘Been a while, is all.’

Prompto leans his head against Gladiolus’s shoulder; feels strong arms enshroud him, holding him close. There’s a certain peace to be found in the steady rhythm of the other man’s breathing, and Prompto is in no rush to break it.

Gladiolus pulls away eventually, as Prompto had known he must. He nuzzles into Prompto’s hair first, planting a kiss on the crown of his head, and lets his arms slip free.

‘I’m coming with you,’ Prompto says, quiet but fierce.

As Gladiolus meets his eye, he nods.

‘I know. Never figured you’d let me leave without you.’

Prompto leans over, fingers finding the stubble of Gladiolus’s jaw as he places a single kiss on his lips. Gladiolus’s eyes are closed as he leans back again; the temptation to make an encore to the night before is strong, but Prompto fights it and rises to his feet, heading for the wardrobe to grab a jacket.

‘Time to go,’ he says. ‘Before I lose my nerve.’

* * *

Edinburgh is beautiful by night — long, dark walkways lit up by amber street lights, the hum of the city’s second life. By day it’s drab and dreary, at least to Prompto’s eyes. He walks down grey streets with Gladiolus at his side, passing people by as they go about their daily toil with little idea of the danger that awaits them outside the city limits.

‘You sure you know your way back?’ Prompto says.

‘Trust me,’ Gladiolus replies. ‘Even if I didn’t, I could smell it out.’

It’s an odd thought — that Gladiolus can just switch on his animal instincts at will like that. Odder still that hours earlier they had slept together, as if it had been the only thing that made sense any more in the world.

Prompto readjusts the straps of his backpack as he walks, hefting the weight of it on his shoulders to check that it’s still full. He can’t help being paranoid that something — everything — will go wrong.

‘Any pointers?’ he asks, glancing up at the other man. ‘Just so I know what I’m walking into?’

‘They can move unnaturally fast,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Their reflexes are more attuned than yours. If you can, your first move should be to stay out of their way, even if you think you can get the kill shot. And don’t look them in the eye — especially Luna. That’s how their glamours work.’

Prompto takes the words in and mulls them over. They don’t have a plan of attack so much as a vow to stick together until it gets too dangerous, in which case Prompto is to cut and run.

‘Don’t look at their eyes,’ he murmurs. ‘Got it.’

They take a bus outside the city; from there it’s a trek by foot. It’s amazing to Prompto to think that Gladiolus made this journey at a dead sprint the evening before without breaking a sweat, likely fast enough to outpace a car.

‘So how come they haven’t been discovered?’ Prompto muses aloud. ‘You’d think somebody’d have found them out by now.’

‘The place is condemned,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Still belongs to Regis and Noctis’s family estate, in name at least. It’s… convenient, having a human servant. Anybody gets too curious and comes poking around, they set me on ‘em.’

Gladiolus goes quiet for a long while. When Prompto looks at him, he has a stern expression darkening his face.

‘Used to,’ Gladiolus says darkly. ‘Used to set me on them.’

Reflex has Prompto reaching out to the other man, twining their fingers together. He doesn’t know the things Gladiolus has done under the vampires’ command, but he can imagine the worst of it.

‘Hey,’ he says gently, tugging on Gladiolus’s hand. ‘This is almost over, okay?’

Gladiolus doesn’t reply.

After a while, little things start to ring a bell to Prompto — landmarks they pass, roads they follow. He feels like he’s treading in his own footsteps from nights earlier, legs moving of their own accord by memory alone. He knows they’re on the right track; he’s sure of it when he sees Gladiolus’s brow furrow.

Insomnia Manor is set away from civilisation, on a long trail that forks off from the road. The path is rutted by tires, but the treads don’t seem fresh. Nobody has been in or out of here in a while.

‘Do they have any, uh…’ Prompto says, glancing around as Gladiolus vaults the gate ahead of him. ‘Other  _ security _ ?’

Gladiolus shakes his head and stretches out a hand to take Prompto’s, helping him clamber over the rungs of the gate.

‘One wolf they can keep in check,’ he says. ‘Two might overpower them.’

It weighs heavily on Prompto’s mind as they pick their way up the path, dodging weeds and errant roots from nearby trees along the way — how lonely Gladiolus must have been all this time. Even with Ignis, the vampires’ human servant, to break the monotony, Prompto must have been the only one to see him as a person in… Well, a long time.

He remembers how Gladiolus had flinched away from him, in the courtyard; how Prompto had thought that the man was scared of him. To know that Gladiolus had been afraid of hurting  _ him _ makes his heart ache.

‘Do you think they’re awake?’ Prompto asks, his voice automatically taking on a hush. ‘Like… waiting for us?’

Gladiolus glances around, his eyes sharply taking in their surroundings. He seems to be looking, smelling and listening all at once, his attuned instincts picking up more than Prompto’s ever could.

‘One of ‘em, maybe,’ he says. ‘They’re expecting us. They’ll take shifts sleeping to conserve their energy.’

Prompto’s skin prickles at the base of his neck. He lifts his hand to the cross hanging at his throat and holds it tight, taking comfort in its modest weight.

It isn’t long before the manor looms ahead. There’s a strange stillness to it, as though it’s preserved in time — other than the peeling paint and ivy overrunning the walls, it’s in perfect keeping.

The window they broke through has been sealed, heavy shutters closed over it, as is the case for all the other windows on this level. On closer inspection, shards and tiny splinters of glass still glitter in the gravel underfoot.

‘How do we get in?’ he asks, tilting his head back to look all the way up the face of the building.

He feels a tug as Gladiolus opens the backpack behind him, taking things out of it and zipping it shut once more. Gladiolus places a stake into his grasp, then moves over to the door.

Prompto inspects the state of the woodwork on the windows. They’re sturdy — surprisingly durable, in spite of their age. When he grips the edge of one of the shutters, it’s heavy and doesn’t so much as rattle on its hinges.

He’s so busy he doesn’t notice what Gladiolus is doing; only when a low, creaking groan fills the air, like wood protesting under pressure, does he look over.

Gladiolus has a crowbar wedged in between the double doors. They’re of such a heavy build Prompto doesn’t expect his companion to have much success, but then the wood splinters and one of the doors pops free, swinging open by the force of its own weight.

‘That’s one way to do it,’ Prompto says.

Gladiolus slips in ahead, takes a look around, then ushers Prompto in after him.

‘They’ll be sleeping in the crypt,’ Gladiolus murmurs, beckoning Prompto forward. ‘I don’t smell any of them close by.’

‘ _ Smell _ them?’ Prompto echoes.

‘Stale blood in their veins,’ Gladiolus says. ‘Stinks of dirty coins.’

Prompto grimaces, falling into step beside Gladiolus as he leads the way.

The manor doesn’t seem quite so intimidating by day, with the daylight pouring in through the open door. The chandelier is lit overhead, but other than its flickering, dancing illumination there’s little to light up the former splendour of the main hall.

It looks more like a mausoleum than a manor, Prompto decides, as he watches dust motes whirl by in the air.

‘This door leads to the basement,’ Gladiolus says, showing him around to the back of the staircase.

Prompto remembers seeing it before — remembers finding it locked. That he had been so close to their resting place amid his wandering makes him shiver involuntarily even now.

The noise of Gladiolus prising open this door seems to echo with ear-piercing clarity through the hall, and Prompto is certain that if their entrance hadn’t been heard before, the vampires will be more than aware of their presence now.

He waits, counting the ticks of the grandfather clock as Gladiolus throws his weight against the crowbar and finally levers the door open.

‘It’ll be dark down there,’ Gladiolus says, voice gravelly and low. ‘They’ll try to play their tricks on you, but just stick close and don’t lose this.’

He slips the torch from his pocket and hands it to Prompto.

‘Got the holy water?’ Gladiolus asks.

Prompto pats his pocket with the edge of his hand and nods.

‘All right,’ Gladiolus says.

His face is grim: determined.

‘Let’s get this over with.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	9. Chapter 9

The staircase here leads straight down, deeper into the bowels of the manor. With each step, the wan daylight from above seems to fade until Prompto finds himself plunged into darkness. He moves to switch on his torch, but as though sensing his motives, Gladiolus turns back and gently grabs his wrist.

‘Not yet,’ he murmurs. ‘Just keep close.’

Prompto lets Gladiolus lead, hand still clasped around Prompto’s wrist, and together they find their way downwards.

Prompto wonders if Gladiolus has night vision — if that’s one of the few perks of being what he is — but maybe now isn’t the time to ask.

It’s mustier down here than he remembers: claustrophobic and stifling. It’s easy to feel like all the air is being sucked up with every breath he takes, and that it’ll just run out if they linger too long.

He keeps his mind on the feel of Gladiolus’s fingers gripped solidly around his wrist and pushes all other thoughts out of his head.

With a jolt, his foot hits solid ground. Still Gladiolus walks onward, and he almost asks to stop — almost lets that thin little thread of anxiety tug and unravel him, but he keeps his head down and he measures his breaths, and even though every lungful of air feels hotter and more damp than the last, he makes it until Gladiolus comes to a halt.

Gladio’s lips find his ear; he barely whispers, wary of the vampires’ keen hearing.

‘Wait right here. Get ready to run.’

They’re not exactly reassuring words to go by, but Prompto nods.

Gladiolus’s fingers squeeze his wrist, then release. With the slightest creak of weathered hinges, he opens a door and slips through.

For a tense few moments, Prompto waits with pricked ears and bated breath. There’s the slightest howl of a draught whistling through the hallway, and the walls seem to tower over him as though he can feel them where he fails to see them.

Minutes pass, maybe more, and still there’s no word from Gladiolus. His mind starts jumping to all sorts of conclusions, and even though it dawns on him that he’d probably have heard if something were wrong, his gut compels him to open the door and let himself in. 

There’s only a handful of candles lit in the room this time, sitting together in a puddle of melted wax in the very middle of the floor. In the faint light they cast, Prompto can see Gladiolus’s silhouette as he stalks about the room, moving almost silently.

Prompto takes a step forward and his shoe scuffs against the ground, prompting Gladiolus to whip around to face him. Gladiolus looks ready to spill blood until he realises it’s Prompto; his shoulders sag as he relaxes as shakes his head.

‘I told you to stay outside,’ he hisses.

Prompto shrugs and gestures around.

‘There’s nobody here,’ he says.

Even in the flickering light he can tell the coffins are empty, and Gladiolus’s expression of resignation tells him he’s realised the same thing.

‘Now what?’ Prompto says, moving to one of the coffins. He looks inside of it, as if a body might somehow materialise in its very much empty expanse. Stranger things have happened of late.

When he looks up again, Gladiolus’s eyes are gazing past him, just above his head. With a shiver, Prompto realises somebody’s standing there, a few feet away.

‘They expected you to come,’ a voice says. ‘They knew you’d look here first.’

Slowly, Prompto pivots on his heels. As he goes, he edges a little closer to Gladiolus as though he might somehow have time to run behind him for cover before this newcomer — whoever it is — should make a lunge for him.

He doesn’t recognise the man at first, although it comes back to him like the trickling of sand through an hourglass: sitting at the grand table in the dining room, being served a meal by a polite man who never uttered a word unless spoken to; crossing the main hall silently, moving about his business while Prompto crept around in the shadows.

‘Ignis,’ Gladiolus murmurs. ‘You’re—’

The man takes a step forward, and the candlelight is barely enough to see by but it casts hideous shadows across Ignis’s face, contorting his features. He’s not a monster — no, certainly not — but the young face he had worn the last time they met is marred now by wrinkles, by pockmarks.

Prompto remembers what Gladiolus said — about the vampires’ servant helping him.

‘You need to get out of here,’ Prompto blurts. ‘The front door is open.’

Ignis shakes his head, as Gladiolus answers for him:

‘He can’t.’

Prompto narrows his eyes and shakes his head in confusion. He turns to look at Gladiolus, then back at Ignis. The man still stands there, hands folded neatly in front of him.

‘Why the hell not?’ Prompto counters.

There’s a sigh from Ignis, so weary and jaded that Prompto feels it in his own bones. The man seems to wilt under the weight of his thoughts, and with each passing moment the shadows on his face grow deeper.

‘Their venom, Prompto,’ Gladiolus says. ‘That’s how they’ve kept him loyal for so long.’

Prompto opens his mouth to protest, to demand that somebody give him some straight answers for once, but as he looks at Ignis he finds he already knows.

Even now, he looks older than he had a few moments before, as though the very life leaches from him.

‘Isn’t there… something we can do?’

Ignis straightens up then, throwing his shoulder back and tilting his chin upwards in a regal affectation. Prompto can almost imagine the man he used to be before all of this.

‘There’s no time,’ Ignis says. ‘You must defeat them — burn down the manor if you have to. There’s petrol in the greenhouse out in the back. I’ve unlocked all the doors for you that I can, but there are some doors that even I can’t open.’

‘Not a problem,’ Gladiolus says gruffly.

When Prompto turns, Gladio has his crowbar in hand, hefting it in the air for them to see. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Prompto thinks there’s a smirk on his lips.

‘What’re you gonna do?’ Gladiolus asks, his eyes on Ignis.

‘Help in any way I can,’ Ignis says. ‘If you’ll let me.’

* * *

When Prompto gets back from the greenhouse, they’ve already used the mechanism to lower the chandelier in the main hall, setting it down carefully on the polished floor. One by one, Ignis lights the candles within it, and it’s almost like watching him undertake a ritual for the reverence with which he moves, silently going about his duty.

Once the candles are lit, Gladiolus winches it back up to ceiling height.

It’s Prompto’s turn next — he unscrews the cap from the first can of gasoline he grabbed, and even though the smell is potent enough to make his eyes water, he sets about pouring it first in a puddle beneath the chandelier, then up the staircase. The liquid turns the red runner dark, as though soaked in blood.

The whole place stinks of fumes. When he gets back downstairs he can see Gladiolus grimacing, but he doesn’t complain.

Ignis leans against the rail of the staircase, looking about at the doors leading off into either of the wings of the house.

‘We should spread it through the building to be on the safe side,’ Ignis says, with a gesture to the full can Prompto left on the floor. ‘You two can take one wing, and I’ll take the other.’

‘Uh-uh,’ Gladiolus interjects. ‘You’re in no condition to be wandering around this place alone. What if you run into’ em?’

The trio share a silence while they each think, and when nobody comes forward with a solution Prompto realises he might have to be the one to speak up.

‘You can go with Gladio,’ he says quietly. ‘And I’ll take the other side.’

‘No!’ Gladiolus barks.

Ignis merely shakes his head.

‘Gladiolus knows his way around the manor,’ he says blithely. ‘You, however, do not. Either you come with me, or you go with him.’

Prompto has the distinct feeling that he’s being talked down to by his elder, and when he glances to Gladiolus for support he only finds him looking sternly back at him.

Prompto doesn’t want to be apart from Gladio, but he knows he can’t leave Ignis alone, either — not when he seems to be weakening by the minute.

‘I’ll go with you, then,’ he says, reluctantly. ‘And we’ll meet back here in a half hour if we haven’t run into anybody.’

Gladiolus raises an eyebrow.

‘And if you run into ‘em?’ he prompts.

‘We figure that out when we come to it.’

* * *

Prompto might not be in the comfort of Gladiolus’s company, but there’s a certain peace to be had in walking with Ignis. He talks seldom, but when he does his words have weight.

He fills Prompto in on the last time he had tried to escape, when he had managed to make it out into the courtyard; before that, he had attacked his captors only to be struck over the head before he could be subdued.

‘How long have they been living here?’ Prompto asks in a whisper, as he pours a trail of gasoline around the dining room table. ‘Uh… Un-living?’

Ignis is silent for a moment while he thinks.

‘Since the turn of the last century, I believe,’ he says. ‘If local legend is to be believed.’

Prompto’s next question is less easy, and he doesn’t expect Ignis to answer.

‘How long have  _ you _ been here?’

He sees Ignis tense where he stands on the far side of the table. Prompto ducks his head back to his work, wishing he had never asked, but when he glances up again Ignis is leaning on the back of one of the chairs, looking so weary it seems to hurt.

‘I was twenty-two when they lured me here,’ he says. ‘I’d heard the tales, of course — that nobody who came here ever returned. I was sure they’d kill me, so I tried to prove my worth to them if they kept me alive. I wish I hadn’t.’

He thinks for a while, staring off into the middle-distance for so long that Prompto’s almost sure he’s gone into a daydream.

‘I can scarcely remember how long it’s been,’ he says, with a frown. ‘I remember the coronation, but little else before I came here.’

‘The coronation?’ Prompto repeats. ‘Like… the Queen? That was… Geez.’

He’s not so sure on British history, but he remembers seeing photographs of the Queen — looking a great deal younger than she does now — on her coronation day. That makes Ignis much, much older than he would appear, but that discrepancy seems to be righting itself as his body withdraws from the vampires’ venom.

‘We should keep going,’ Ignis says suddenly. ‘Before I’m too weak.’

Every room they enter, Prompto can’t help but tense in anticipation of finding one of the manor’s undead residents waiting within. He has the gasoline and a lighter just in case, and a stake wedged under his belt, but he knows he’ll be no match if he goes up against them, really.

The can is starting to get light; before they tackle the next floor, they venture back to the main hall to grab another.

Prompto hopes to see Gladiolus there, but the hall is empty — there’s still time before they’re due to meet up again. He tells himself that Gladio is okay, and that he would know if something had happened.

Prompto’s sure, as they enter the first door along the balcony of the main hall, that they’re running out of places the vampires might be hiding.

They’re silent as they make their way through this floor, Prompto taking the heavier can while Ignis brings the much lighter one with him. Each step they take is tentative now, and Prompto can’t quite seem to stop holding his breath unless the sound of it should alert someone to their presence.

They walk through a long hallway, bounded on one side by doors, and it reminds Prompto of the hallway he had stepped out onto from his bedroom. He stops suddenly, the memory niggling at him, and Ignis pauses a little ahead.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Prompto says. ‘You’ve been the one helping me.’

Ignis gives a modest nod.

It’s strange to think of this man helping him along the way, hidden behind the scenes — to think that Prompto’s only memories of him are of being frightened.

‘I gave you tea before you slept,’ Ignis says. ‘Ostensibly to make you drowsy. It was meant to help you shake off Lunafreya’s thrall, although you scarcely needed my assistance in that regard.’

Prompto draws in a breath to question him further, but then there’s a creak somewhere down the hall, too close. When he meets Ignis’s glance, there’s a glint of fear in his green eyes.

Slowly, Ignis lifts his finger to his lips, then points to the door close by them. When Prompto nods, he hands over the near-empty gasoline can and makes his way steadily down the hallway with the gait of someone unburdened by concern.

While he moves ahead, Prompto deftly slips inside the room and leaves the door open just a crack, enough to listen.

He hears the floorboards groan beneath Ignis’s tread, and as the servant must be nearing the end of the hallway there comes the complaint of unoiled hinges farther down.

‘Ignis. I thought I heard you scurrying about.’

It’s Luna; the sweet melody of her voice, even dripping with disdain as it is now, makes Prompto’s heart pang. He pushes the picture of her face from his head, filling his thoughts instead with the memory of Gladio’s warmth.

‘My Lady,’ Ignis replies, seemingly unflustered. ‘I’m afraid I’m finding it increasingly difficult to carry out my duties. I grow weak without your blessing.’

There’s a sigh from Luna that wouldn’t be out of place from the lips of a petulant little girl. Prompto hears her gentle footsteps move across the floor; reflexively, he shrinks away from the opening of the door.

‘You know, Ignis,’ she says, and there’s something about her voice like the trill of a cat as it toys with a mouse. ‘You’ve been with us for so very long, and served us  _ so _ loyally.’

There’s silence for a while and Prompto has to fight the urge to peek out into the hallway.

‘I have always wondered, though,’ she continues, dropping her tone so low Prompto has to strain to hear it, ‘just what it would take for you to turn on us.’

Prompto tenses; he’s almost certain he hears Ignis’s sharp intake of breath.

‘My Lady?’ Ignis replies. ‘I’m afraid I’m not sure I follow.’

‘I’m curious,’ Luna says, ‘as to why you’ve tracked that  _ dreadful _ stench of fuel through the manor. Is it to mask his scent, I wonder?’

Once Luna’s words die down, Prompto can hear nothing for what feels like an eternity. He grips his stake in one hand, the other struggling to maintain his hold on the gasoline cans, and he waits for some sign of what Luna intends to do.

‘You didn’t do a very good job,’ Luna says.

She’s right outside the door.

Prompto knows he has few options — the most likely of which is to yank open the curtains of the window behind him, smash the glass and try to brave the fall to the ground below.

He’s pretty sure he has better chances of surviving  _ that _ , at last.

‘Prompto,’ she coaxes. Her voice is sweetness and light, and Prompto has to screw his eyes shut and think of anything but her to try to force it out of his head. ‘Darling. I’ve missed you.’

_ You’ve missed her too, _ a voice says somewhere in the back of his mind, and it sounds remarkably like his own.

‘My sweet,’ Luna says. ‘Please, do come out. I long to hold you again.’

There’s a quiet desperation in her voice, and his heart aches for her — for her touch, for her kiss. When he tries to turn his thoughts back to Gladiolus, all that comes to mind is the  _ beast _ he turns into: filthy and violent, a slave to his instincts.

‘My love,’ she says, and he can see her eye as she peers through the gap in the door. ‘Come to me.’

What was it Gladiolus said about her eyes?

He struggles to recall it, clutching in vain at wisps of smoke in his memories. Before he even knows it, the thought is gone.

He takes a step forward, and another. When Luna opens the door, he walks out obediently to meet her.

She’s just as radiant as he remembers, her hair glinting in the candlelight. He remembers all too suddenly, too forcefully, how her cool, pale lips had felt on his skin.

‘What are these, my sweet?’ she says.

He lets her take the stake from his grasp; when she nudges his other hand, he stoops to set the cans of gasoline down without having to be asked. He barely hears the clink of her tossing the stake aside, too wrapped up in the cool blue of her eyes to pay much heed.

‘My darling Prompto,’ she murmurs, closing her arms around him.

He rushes to meet her embrace, his body aching for her, and for a blissful moment it’s everything she could ever want — until she tenses suddenly, her lips near his throat.

‘You smell like…’ she says, her voice low and dangerous. ‘You smell like that  _ thing. _ ’

She pushes him away at arms length, and he stands dutifully there as she looks him over, as if she can see Gladiolus’s touch emblazoned on his skin. Her fingers move to his throat, pushing aside the collar of his jacket, and she recoils with a sudden yelp of pain as she touches the chain that hangs there.

_ The cross, _ he remembers dimly.  _ The cross that Gladiolus gave you. Gladiolus. Gladio. _

Her face is contorted in horror as she clutches her hand to her mouth to soothe the pain away from her fingertips; in that moment she doesn’t seem quite so lovely as Gladiolus’s face fills Prompto’s thoughts, with it the memories of his touch.

‘You ungrateful little  _ wretch! _ ’ she hisses.

‘Prompto! Look out!’

He snaps his head toward the sound of Ignis’s voice as if broken from a spell; in his distraction, Luna grabs him by the collar of his shirt and yanks him close, her mouth meeting his throat in a burst of pain.

He feels it well up within him, and it’s not the soothing warmth that had taken root when Regis fed upon him — this time it’s a quick flash of heat, and it’s as though he burns brighter than the sun as he lifts his hands and brings them between their bodies, pushing her away with all his might.

She doesn’t just stumble — she flies through the air, colliding with the wall further down the corridor. He’s so dumbfounded that he just stands, staring at her where she lies crumpled, until Ignis’s voice alerts him back to the moment.

‘Prompto! The petrol!’

Still bleary, still struggling to loosen her hold over him, Prompto stoops and grabs the cans from by his feet. As an afterthought, he fumbles around for the stake where Luna dropped it.

He doesn’t dare look back at her as he turns tail and flees, Ignis leading the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter gets a little violent toward the end.

Prompto runs only as far as Ignis can go; when his companion begins to lag behind, paling, he glances around the hallway they have found themselves in, takes Ignis’s keys, and unlocks a door for them to go through.

This part of the manor feels less lived-in, with little more than Prompto’s torch to light their surroundings. A thick layer of dust seems to coat every surface he shines its beam on and he tries and fails not to imagine how many spiders must be scuttling around in here. There’s a chair, at least, for Ignis to take a rest in — and Luna doesn’t seem to have come after them.

‘They’ll be on alert now that they know I’m helping you,’ Ignis says, between shaky breaths. ‘I’ll only slow you down.’

Prompto doesn’t admit it, but Ignis has a point — yet he can’t deny, either, that he doesn’t know his way around well enough to go it alone. He’s already all turned around, hardly sure if they’re even in the same wing of the manor.

‘Can you get us back to the main hall?’ he asks. ‘Without running into her again, I mean.’

Ignis pauses; for a moment his chest heaves in slow, shuddering breaths and Prompto feels himself wincing at the pain apparent on his face.

‘Yes,’ he says. His certainty is reassuring — somewhat. ‘I can’t guarantee we’ll not cross paths with the others, though.’

Prompto gives a reluctant nod.

He’s starting to feel like a liability; like his bond with Luna only puts the others in more danger than they would already be in, if not for him.

Yet even as the thought crosses his mind, he can’t help but think of what happened with Luna — that burst of energy that had sent her flying. He would ask Ignis what it meant, but he has a feeling that even he doesn’t know.

‘We’ll go back, then,’ he says. ‘Regroup with Gladio. If he hasn’t already come looking for us.’

Ignis seems as though he could use another while to recover, but Prompto helps him to his feet and they walk together to the door, Prompto cracking it open to peer out into the hallway. Once sure that it’s safe, he pulls it wide and leads Ignis out.

They take a staircase down a level and follow a corridor along, moving slowly and silently, and once they emerge onto the main hall Prompto feels the burden lighten from his shoulders considerably.

The exit is just ahead, daylight still streaming through; if they need to escape in a hurry, their path is right there.

Prompto sets the gas cans down out of sight behind the staircase. If Gladiolus has done his job, the place should be thoroughly doused in the stuff. Tempting as it is to set a match to it and leave, however, there’s too great of a risk that the vampires might make it out alive.

They need to finish the job, once and for all.

‘Prompto.’

When he looks up, Ignis has stepped away, around the staircase. Prompto can’t see what he’s looking at, but he can see the expression on Ignis’s face; can see the restrained horror there.

Dread floods Prompto’s system as he follows Ignis’s footsteps. He doesn’t know what he expects to see — all the possibilities are too horrific for him to comprehend — but he feels a rush of relief when there’s no sign of Gladiolus.

There is, however, a pool of blood on the ground; the red of it seems impossibly bright, and Prompto almost convinces himself that it can’t be real until he finds his legs moving him forward of their own volition to get a closer look.

Here, it’s less easy to deny — the copper tang is strong, so ripe it makes his stomach roil.

There’s another bloodstain a few feet away, and a smattering of splashes along the way. His glance follows the trail and as he lifts his head, he sees where it leads.

A door stands open on the far side of the hallway — but no, he realises after a moment, it’s gone from its hinges. There are gouges taken out of the frame as if made by great slashing claws, and there are smears of blood on the woodwork.

He doesn’t need to think to know that Gladiolus must have gone that way, must have been injured somehow and fled. If he let the beast take over, he must really be in trouble.

He thinks he can hear Ignis’s soft words behind him, but Prompto pays little heed as he steps toward the blood and drops to his haunches, touching a tentative fingertip to the liquid. As if he’s done this a thousand times before, he lifts it to his face and takes in the scent of it.

He’s hit with a bombardment of images: flashes, as if of memories, but through someone else’s eyes. There’s Regis, towering over him, stalking through the shadows of the main hall; a rush of anger and fear; pain, gouging through Prompto’s chest, through his flank, hot and sharp. He sees the polished marble beneath him, closer now as if seen on four legs; sees the door appear in his view as a fur-covered paw rips it from its hinges.

He blinks, and it’s gone.

‘Regis,’ he says. ‘He attacked Gladiolus. He’s hurt pretty bad.’

When he looks back to Ignis, he recognises the expression on his face as one of resignation. He knows, just as Prompto does, that they’ll have to go after Gladiolus — and that they’ll undoubtedly run into Regis along the way.

‘You should leave,’ Prompto says. ‘We might not make it out of here alive.’

Ignis puffs out his chest, holding his head high. He says nothing, but he doesn’t have to.

‘Right,’ Prompto says, with a shake of his head. ‘Well just… stay here. I’ll be back soon, if I’m lucky.’

* * *

It’s not difficult to see Gladiolus’s path through the hallway — bloody prints stain the floor in intervals, and Prompto can see where the beast’s claws gouged tracks into it.

Prompto pockets his torch, slipping his stake from his belt, and hoists it at shoulder-height as he moves slowly down the corridor, carefully side-stepping the blood as he goes. The door at the end has been wrenched open and barely hangs from the frame; through it, Prompto can see the darkness that conceals the stairwell within.

When he glances back down the hallway, he can’t see Ignis through the doorway any more. He’s afraid to go alone, but at least Ignis will be safe in the main hall — for now.

He feels like he’s holding his breath the whole way up to the next floor, as if something might jump out at him from the shadows. He tries to reassure himself with the fact that he’d probably already be dead if that were the case.

The door at the top is gone, letting the faintest light into the stairwell as he nears the landing. He pauses there, listening intently.

He can’t hear anything — no sounds of fighting, no voices. He knows better than to think it means it’s safe.

The hallway is the one Prompto’s bedroom had been on. Sure enough, as he creeps down the floorboards, trying in vain to distribute his weight to minimise the creaking, he can see that the door to it is open. A single, solitary paw print leads into the room, bloody and smeared.

Closer now, Prompto realises he  _ can _ hear something: laboured breathing. Gladiolus.

Once at the doorway, he can see Gladio huddled in the corner, still wearing the beast’s form. His great chest heaves in pained breaths, and even from here Prompto can see the blood seeping down his torso. He looks weak — impossibly, dangerously weak.

‘Gladio,’ Prompto blurts.

He doesn’t realise his error right away; he’s halfway across the room when he feels a chill prickle at his neck, making his hair stand on end. By then it’s too late, but he still twists to look even as he knows how futile it is.

Behind him now, Gladiolus gives a terrible growl, just as Prompto’s eyes land on Regis where he sits in a chair by the door.

‘I had a feeling you’d come,’ the man says, almost nonchalant.

He rises to his feet with a sweep of his cloak, crossing the room in great, regal strides. This time, Prompto has the good sense not to look him in the eye, but it’s probably not much use.

‘He must have followed your scent here,’ Regis says, with a flick of his hand toward the bed where the covers are still unmade. ‘Touching, really. However foolish it might have been.’

Prompto takes a tiny step back, his eyes trained on Regis’s collar.

‘I killed Luna,’ Prompto says.

Regis laughs — a hollow, cold sound.

‘Unlikely,’ the man replies. ‘I’d feel it if she were gone. I must commend your moxie for trying to intimidate me, though.’

Prompto pushes out his jaw in defiance, trying to exude a sort of confidence of which he isn’t currently in possession.

‘Maybe not,’ he says, ‘but I hurt her. Pretty bad.’

He’s still not even sure how he did it — not sure if he could do it again. He hopes against hope that he can, racking his brains for ideas as he sees Regis begin to walk toward him once more.

‘It needn’t have been painful for you,’ Regis says. ‘All you would have felt was a pinch. Now… Now, I intend to draw it out as long as I can.’

Prompto takes another step back. He feels his hand brush Gladiolus’s pelt, feels the warmth of his breath as the beast nuzzles his wrist. If this really is the end, at least they’re together.

_ No, _ a stubborn voice protests in his head.  _ You can fight. _

With every step that Regis takes, Prompto feels his skin crawl. He has to fight the urge to look up, to meet the vampire’s glance — has to ball his hands into fists at his sides and clench his jaw, so strong is the compulsion to give in.

Behind him, Gladiolus bristles and snaps his great maw in an empty threat.

Regis stops a foot away, so tall that Prompto’s glance is on the middle of his chest now. A silence falls over the room and he can feel that pull, that tug that tries to draw his glance up to meet Regis’s. Whether by some preternatural essence or by force of Regis’s will, Prompto feels like he’s drowning in it.

Prompto sees Regis move — sees him lift his hand, and instinctively Prompto flinches, but he can’t quite get far enough away before those cold, cold fingers touch his cheek.

He shudders, and he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip to bite back a yelp of pain as Regis digs his nails into Prompto’s flesh, forcibly lifting his chin so that their eyes meet.

There is no rush of sweet peace as there had been with Luna; no stillness in Prompto’s heart. He’s rooted to the spot, his gaze locked with Regis’s cool green eyes, but the fear still courses through him.

He’s going to die. He’s going to die, and he’s going to let it happen without raising a finger to stop it.

He hears a plaintive whine from Gladiolus behind him, more of a dog’s protest than that of a beast. He feels the great muzzle butt against his hand, and he’s grateful for the company, at least.

Regis is close now, close enough to smell the faint scent of decay on his breath. He wrenches Prompto’s head painfully to the side, exposing his throat.

There’s a pinch at the palm of Prompto’s hand, and he doesn’t understand it at first — it’s like the sting of a bee, sharp but harmless. He feels wetness leak from it, dripping down his fingers. Something warm and damp touches Prompto’s hand, slithering over his fingers. He winces in revulsion, his fingers twitching at the touch, but he pays it no more attention as Regis closes the distance between them, fangs bared greedily.

It’s like the ocean is roaring in Prompto’s ears as his pulse picks up, blood rushing to the surface of his skin to greet Regis’s mouth. He feels himself drowning in it, swept away by the undertow.

But — no, it’s not the crashing of the waves, it’s the snarl of an engine, the howl of the wind. It’s fearsome and deafening, and it’s not  _ in _ his ears but  _ by _ them.

He feels panic pulse through him anew as Regis’s teeth pierce his throat, and he readies himself for that dreadful draining sensation, the feeling of life flooding from him— 

Something hits him, hard, and knocks him aside.

From his vantage point on the floor, he can see little more than a flurry of fur-covered legs and swirling robes as the two grabble one another. Prompto’s blood must have given Gladiolus a second wind, as he seems stronger now — no longer burdened by the terrible wounds on his body.

Prompto’s hands are starting to come back to him, Regis’s glamour having begun to wear off, but when he tries to move his legs they’re feeble and useless. Bit by bit his upper body comes back, and he uses his arms to drag himself across the floor to the bed, where he clutches at the sheets in a bid to pull himself upright.

There’s a crash across the room, and he just manages to lift his head in time to see Gladiolus fall away from a mirror. In the shattered glass, Prompto can see the beast’s reflection, but not Regis’s as he advances upon Gladiolus.

This isn’t working — Gladio is still too weak. What little blood he must have sparingly drawn from Prompto’s hand, it wasn’t enough.

‘Gladiolus,’ he says, his voice little more than a croak. When he tries again, he can hardly hear the sound over the noise of the two grappling in front of him.

He needs to get Gladiolus more blood: enough that he can overpower Regis, much as he did in the crypt. Without intervening in the fighting, however, he’s not so sure that there’s much he can do.

His eyes flit around the room for something that might be of use, jumping from the chair in the corner to the door. The stake fell from his belt at some point; he sees it sitting harmlessly on the floor. He doesn’t much like his chances with a piece of sharpened wood against an enraged vampire.

Gladiolus lunges at Regis, but already Prompto can see he’s wavering.

Prompto’s legs still aren’t responding, but he sets his sights on the mirror across the room, using the bed to pull himself along. At the end he braces himself and drops, breaking his fall with his arms, and ignores the pain that the impact sends shooting through his elbows.

It’s slow work, dragging himself across the floor; Gladio gets knocked back towards him at one point, close enough that fur brushes Prompto’s shoulder, but he keeps his head down and presses forward.

Tiny little granules of glass graze his forearms as he pulls himself along, but it’s not enough. He spots a large, jagged shard, about the length of his hand, and carefully picks it up.

‘Gladio!’ he says, and this time his voice comes out loud enough to catch the beast’s attention.

He hopes this works.

Clamping his eyes shut, he moves the shard toward his free hand, and pulls it across the palm. It’s not enough to draw blood, but it stings — he does it again, deeper and with more force, and he knows he’s struck true when he feels a rush of pain and heat flood the palm of his hand, seeping through the gaps in his fingers.

When he opens his eyes, the beast is watching him, glance flicking between Prompto’s face and the blood dripping from his hand. Gladiolus seems to be at war with himself, fighting the beast’s instincts, but when Prompto lifts his hand upwards and lets blood splash freely on the floor, Prompto knows which part of his nature will win.

Regis seems poised to take advantage of the beast’s inattention, but Gladiolus has already bounded across the floor to Prompto; he laps up the blood from the floor first, then when it isn’t enough he sates himself from Prompto’s hand.

Prompto knows it’s only a matter of time before Regis realises his plan, but by then Gladio seems to have had his fill; his amber eyes flash with fire as he rounds on Regis, fur bristling. A great roar rumbles up from his chest, ripping free of his maws; it’s so bellowing and fierce that it makes the hairs stand up on Prompto’s flesh.

In a flash of limbs, Gladiolus is in front of Regis, claws slashing wildly. The vampire seems ill-equipped to counter this sudden onslaught; Prompto watches Gladiolus beat him back, Regis trying in vain to gain some ground.

Regis throws his hands out to either side of him, giving a snarl filled with rage and desperation, and there’s something in his eyes — not unlike the look of a caged predator — that makes Prompto’s heart pound.

He wants to shout out, to warn Gladiolus, but the bloodlust has taken over. The beast keeps slashing wildly as the vampire throws his weight at him, and Prompto awaits the inevitably crash of bodies to the ground.

Instead, there’s a strange stillness as he watches Gladiolus wrap his great forelegs around Regis’s head and, as if he were a doll, wrench it up and to the side.

There is no sickening crack, like in the movies — Prompto suspects he wouldn’t hear it, anyway, over the beast’s laboured breathing.

Regis slips from Gladiolus’s grasp, limp and motionless, and hits the floor with a thud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	11. Chapter 11

The room seems preternaturally still as Prompto stares at Regis’s body where it lies in a heap on the floor. He realises he’s holding breath, waiting for the vampire to jump up suddenly and retaliate.

Prompto breathes out. Nothing happens.

The beast is there by the body, Gladiolus still wearing its form. When Prompto lifts his glance, he finds Gladiolus looking back at him with as much concern and protectiveness as can be found in the eyes of a wolf.

Prompto knows that for Gladio, letting the beast take over is like losing control; that it scares him to give in to that side of himself. Now, as Gladiolus slinks over toward him on four legs, claws clicking across the floorboards, Prompto realises he’s not afraid.

He slips his arm around the beast’s neck as soon as it’s close enough and buries his face in the warm, silky fur, holding tight for as long as he dares.

Gladio wriggles free of him eventually and nudges his muzzle at Prompto’s hand. It’s still bleeding freely; this time, when Gladiolus licks it, he gets the feeling he’s cleaning the wound, rather than drinking from it.

It stings — although not as bad as the initial cut had — and when Gladio finally lets up, Prompto withdraws his hand and holds it against his shirt in a bid to stem the flow.

‘You had me worried, big guy,’ Prompto says, running his other hand through the fur on the beast’s head.

Gladio ducks down, laying his ears flat in appreciation. Prompto’s never realised what a majestic creature he is; not just some B-movie monster. He has clever eyes and an elegant snout, and as he stands there on all fours it’s easy to see the aspect of the wolf in him, the creature for which his kind was named.

They have to get to Ignis soon, but for now Gladiolus takes a moment to curl up on the ground, resting his head in Prompto’s lap and accepting his affection as might a faithful canine companion.

‘C’mon,’ Prompto murmurs, by Gladio’s ear. ‘We should get back.’

He doesn’t know how much Gladiolus understands in this form — if he even understands at all — but he rises nevertheless to his feet and lets Prompto use him to pull himself upright, lending his support as Prompto leans over to grab his stake where it fell.

At least Prompto’s legs seem to be back under his control now. He still uses Gladiolus for balance as the wolf leads him through the hallway and back downstairs, through to the main hall.

Ignis is still there, leaning against the doorframe of the entrance, his face turned toward the sunlight. The sound of the door closing draws his attention, and his face briefly registers alarm, then relief.

‘Regis is dead,’ Prompto says, and he watches Ignis’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

‘Any sign of Noctis?’ Ignis asks.

Prompto shakes his head. He feels his blood run cold — they’ve been through most of the mansion now with no sign of him, which leaves very few places he could be.

‘I guess Luna hasn’t come looking for us, either?’ Prompto says, and Ignis merely nods.

Prompto hears a whine across the main hall, by a door; Gladiolus is there, pawing at it. Prompto had wondered why he was still in the beast’s form, but he supposes it makes sense to take advantage of the superior senses.

‘You go,’ Ignis says, waving toward Gladiolus. ‘I feel I’ve surpassed my usefulness.’

Prompto feels the compulsion to hug him goodbye — just in case any or all of them don’t make it out alive — but he settles for stretching a hand out to shake Ignis’s.

‘Stay safe,’ Prompto says.

In some ways, Prompto would prefer to have Gladio there —  _ really _ there — to talk to as they go through the door, but he can’t claim that the beast’s present isn’t somewhat reassuring. At least with his acute sense of smell, they’ll be able to see the vampires coming.

Gladiolus pads ahead, leading him into the dining room. Prompto follows along and steps carefully around the trail of gasoline winding across the floor. He expects Gladio to lead him to the only other door in the room, but instead the beast looks around, sniffing the air uncertainly. When he pads this way and that a few times, returning to stand nonplussed in front of Prompto, Prompto feels the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

Prompto’s eyes flit from corner to corner of the room. He eyes up the heavy curtains closed over the windows, but they’re too flush with the glass for anybody to be hiding behind them. With a lurch, it crosses his mind that someone could be hiding under the table and he ducks to check beneath it, to no avail.

He gives Gladiolus an idle pat on the head and steps away, clutching his stake as he goes. He glances around the room, touching surfaces as he goes, and stops on the far side of the table from Gladiolus.

The beast gives a whine and glances this way and that.

‘Maybe you made a mistake?’ Prompto suggests, with a shrug. ‘Could’ve smelled something from earlier.’

Another whine from Gladio seems to say  _ No, I can’t be wrong. _

Prompto sighs and moves to the table, leaning over the back of the chair closest to him. He tries to think, of all the places he’s seen in the manor, where Noctis would be most likely to go. If Luna has recovered, they’ve probably regrouped by now, which doubles the danger if they happen upon them unprepared.

They’ve killed one already though — maybe it was Gladiolus’s effort, but Prompto’s blood helped, too.

He can hear the soft panting of Gladio’s breath on the far side of the table, his great form hidden behind the tall back of the chair where he sits on the floor. Prompto can just see the tips of his ears twitching about, as if picking up on some sound inaudible to human ears.

Prompto feels a chill creep across his skin, from the base of his skull winding down to the bottom of his spine.

There’s one place they haven’t looked yet:  _ up. _

Slowly, he turns his glance upwards. He wants to tell himself that it’s ridiculous — that there’s no way somebody could be hiding in plain sight above their heads — but he sees the shadows sprawl across the ceiling and watches them dance this way and that, either a trick of the light or something much worse.

His head isn’t even fully tilted back when the shadow begins to fall towards him. His brain registers it before his body can even react, and even though he lurches away he feels an arm slip around his throat, squeezing it so tight that he can’t make a sound to warn Gladiolus. He lifts his stake, but before he can make a move, he feels his wrist wrench painfully, held harmlessly in place until he’s forced to relinquish his hold on it.

He can see the ears twitching again, and watches as the beast rises to its feet and pads forward; as he goes, Prompto’s captor walks him backwards, leading him in the other direction.

When Prompto so much as swallows, the grip only presses tighter, crushing his Adam’s apple painfully.

They’re at the far end of the room now, by the door to the main hall. The full length of the table stands between them and Gladiolus, and Prompto’s assailant seems to have stopped leading him around — as soon as Gladio moves past the chair at the head of the table, he’ll see them. From there he could bolt the length of the room in a few easy strides.

Prompto hears the slight squeak of a door knob, and as Gladio rounds the end of the table he sees the beast’s ears twitch and flatten just as Gladiolus ducks and primes himself to sprint.

The door is open now, Prompto’s captor making no effort at concealing himself, and as he walks Prompto backwards through the entrance, Gladiolus moves across the floor with slow, measured strides, his hackles up as he growls.

‘You know what happens here, hound,’ Noctis says sharply. ‘You attack, I tear your darling’s throat out.’

Gladiolus ducks his head low, but he keeps up his steady gait. He’s in the doorway now and Noctis has Prompto by the stairs; with a fleeting rush of anxiety, Prompto hopes that Ignis has gone somewhere safe.

‘I told Lunafreya she was an idiot for wanting to keep him as a pet,’ Noctis says.

His voice is the whine of a petulant boy who hasn’t been given what he wants. The next time he speaks, he addresses Prompto, and the cold of his breath against Prompto’s ear makes him shudder.

‘You’re more trouble than you’re worth, boy,’ he hisses.

Gladiolus is still coming, his growl a low roar by now. Prompto feels something sharp cut into the other side of his neck and realises that Noctis is digging his nails in, the tips of them as sharp and lethal as his fangs.

‘I’ll slit him open right now, I’m warning you,’ Noctis snaps, his voice resonating through the hall. ‘He doesn’t need to be alive for me to drain him once I’m done with you.’

Gladiolus comes to a halt, his amber eyes looking plaintively at Prompto.

They’re at an impasse — Prompto can’t break away, and if Gladiolus makes a move, Noctis will kill him before Gladio ever gets within a few feet. If Noctis kills him, however, the retaliation will be swift and bloody.

Maybe it’s worth it, Prompto decides. If Noctis has to kill him, then maybe that’s what has to happen.

He  _ really _ hopes that doesn’t have to happen.

‘I’ve never understood the fascination with humans,’ Noctis says in a disinterested drawl. ‘Just kill them and be done with it. What worth do they have beyond their blood?’

‘He’s not human.’

The voice brings a chill to Prompto’s flesh; he feels the sensation crawl across his skin, setting the hairs standing on edge as it goes.

He tries to turn to look, but Noct tightens his grip, nails biting into his throat. It’s not like he needs to look, anyway — it can only be Lunafreya.

‘What is he, then?’ Noctis counters. ‘What makes him so damned special that you’ve let him wreak havoc on our home?’

As Noctis walks backwards, Prompto takes slow, steady steps to keep up. If he moves his eyes all the way to the right, he can just see the skirt of her dress, the long, white flowing fabric skimming the floor at the top of the stairs.

Her movements are muffled as she walks down the steps, the fabric of her dress whispering against the carpet with each step.

‘Darling,’ she says. ‘Let him go.’

Even the sound of her lilting voice is too much temptation to bear, and Prompto has to fight every urge to tear his own throat open to try to look at her. There had been a time not so long ago when he would have gladly given his life for her, but even though he knows now that it was all a glamour, he still finds himself drawn to her.

‘I’m not doing that,  _ love, _ ’ Noctis retorts, sharp and sardonic. ‘You never answered me. What’s so important about this one?’

She’s close now, close enough that her perfume is thick in Prompto’s nose again, and he feels his muscles relax. Her voice is near; Prompto feels her hand brush down his waist, and the contact prompts a shiver from him.

‘He’s fae, dear,’ she says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. ‘Can’t you tell?’

Prompto lets out a nervous little laugh.

‘Like a… fairy?’

Noctis cuts him off by digging his nails deep into his throat, and Prompto feels warmth trickle down his flesh.

‘Shut up,’ he says, to Prompto. To Luna: ‘What are you talking about? Their kind have been gone for centuries.’

Luna laughs softly, and the compulsion for Prompto to wrap himself up in her is so strong that it feels as though he’s struggling against every fibre of his being.

‘From here, yes,’ she says delicately. ‘But there are still some spreading their seed — descendants of the old enclaves. Imagine my surprise when I discovered one of them here, in our very city.’

A shiver winds its way along Prompto’s spine. Is that what he is?  _ Fae? _ Is that why he can do the things he can do?

He wants to ask Luna more — she seems to be the only one with any sort of answers — but he can feel Noctis getting impatient, and Gladiolus is there all the while, hackles still raised and fangs still bared. 

‘Let him go, Noctis,’ Luna says sweetly. ‘He’s worth far more to us alive.’

Noctis gives a petulant tut.

‘And what about the hound?’ he counters.

‘He won’t harm us,’ Luna replies, ‘as long as Prompto is safe. Isn’t that right, Gladiolus?’

Prompto expects Gladio to snap his jaws by way of protest, but instead he bows his head as if in defeat. As Prompto watches, his heart drops — what happened to killing them at all cost?

Prompto feels Luna’s touch slip away; she steps around him, and when Prompto glances at her he sees that she holds a chain in her hands, thick and seemingly innocuous if he didn’t already know what it was made from.

‘Let Prompto go, Noctis,’ Luna says, her voice somehow both melodic and commanding. With Regis gone, there’s nobody to lead their little coven — Prompto suspects she intends to take up the mantle.

Prompto can hardly believe it when Noctis releases him; Prompto claps a hand to his throat where he can feel blood trickling from a fresh wound, but he’s more concerned for Gladiolus. The beast is a cowering, docile animal now, sitting submissively on all fours as Luna moves forward with the chain in her grasp.

‘No!’ Prompto shouts.

It’s too late — Gladiolus gives a plaintive howl as the silver closes around his throat, and he seems to shrink into himself as the transformation begins, the beast forced back into hiding. Soon the howls give way to more human screams of anguish, and all at once it’s just Gladiolus sitting there, naked and bloodied and beaten, with the chain hanging heavy at his throat.

Prompto can do little more than watch as Luna turns away and strides back towards him, and as her eyes affix upon his he feels a silent battle of wills take place. She’s pushing her way into him — into his head, into his heart — and he knows that he could fight her back if he could only keep his mind clear. Just beyond her, however, he can see Gladio where he sits in defeat, bleeding from wounds that have yet to heal.

They’ll kill him, Prompto realises. They’ll do whatever it is they plan to do, and then they’ll kill Gladio for his disobedience.

He feels hope slip away, spilling through his fingers, and with it his will to fight. As he gives in, Luna’s glamour takes over, filling him with warmth.

It’s as though nothing else matters. They’ll keep him here, he knows; they’ll look after him. Gladio will die, but  _ he’ll _ live, and he can be with Luna forever. He feels a pang of sadness for Gladiolus — of regret — but it’s soon replaced with a flood of affection toward Luna as she steps forward and caresses his cheek.

She opens her mouth, her petal lips forming the shape of words, but the sound is drowned out as a bellowing roar rips through the main hall.

‘NOW, IGNIS!’

Prompto looks about blankly; can see a shape barreling towards him. He realises it’s Gladiolus just as the man collides with his shoulder, throwing arms around his waist and sending him sprawling across the floor.

There’s a crash from somewhere in the room, and a strange whistling, whirring noise, and Prompto glances up to see Ignis standing off to one side of the room, his chest heaving with exertion.

There’s an inhuman scream — a terrible, unearthly sound that draws Prompto’s gaze to the centre of the hall in time to see the chandelier plummeting to the ground in an explosion of glass, lighted candles setting fire to the pool of gasoline on the floor and the two vampires standing in the middle of it.

He can see Luna — can see her writhing in agony, swatting at the flames as they lick at her dress and crawl up the fabric. Instinct compels him to rush to her, to save her, but Gladiolus grips his jaw painfully tight, wrenching his face to the side so that they’re eye to eye.

‘Stay with me, Prompto,’ Gladio says through gritted teeth. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

Prompto fights as Gladiolus hefts him onto his shoulder, but as he sees his love contorting in the fire as though dancing, he feels her grasp on his mind begin to ebb away like the tide.

He watches her scream, the fire tearing through her hair and flesh like kindling; watches Noctis clutch fruitlessly at the fire where it subsumes his face. The last thing Prompto sees is the two of them clinging to one another in desperation as the flames roar through the room, devouring everything in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come yell with me on social media! [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapters: 12/12_
> 
> *sprays mouth with silver*
> 
> WITNESS ME

Ignis keeps drifting off, although between Prompto and Gladiolus, they’ve been pretending not to notice for a while now. There are days where he seems better — strong and full of life — and days where his age seems to catch up with him. Today is the latter.

It’s when he loses his train of thought mid-sentence that Gladiolus declares it’s time for Ignis to get some rest; it pains Prompto to leave when Ignis himself has proclaimed these visits to be the highlight of his day, but even he can see the weariness etched in the lines of Ignis’s face.

‘Classes start up again in two days,’ Prompto says, clasping Ignis’s hand with his own. ‘But I’ll be here tomorrow, okay? And I’ll drop by on Saturday next week, and—’

Ignis cuts him off with a shake of his head. He’s not too tired to give a wry little smirk, moving his other hand to cover Prompto’s.

‘Take some time for yourselves,’ he says. ‘You get scarce enough of it. I’m not going anywhere.’

They hug Ignis before they go, and even though Prompto can’t help but notice how frail his shoulders seem today, how weak his arms, he knows Ignis is right. 

They take the scenic route, wandering along the Royal Mile. Christmas decorations still adorn the streets, yet to be taken down as the city returns to the humdrum of the year, and in the dimness of the late evening they light the way like a beacon on their journey home.

‘Iggy’s got a point,’ Gladiolus says. ‘You’ve got a dissertation to write this semester, and we barely see each other as it is. Let’s just… make tomorrow about us.’

Prompto nods, slipping his arm through Gladio’s and resting his head against his shoulder as they walk. He doesn’t need to be convinced.

It’s still surreal — that they’re together, that they made it through everything that happened two months ago. Prompto has moments of doubt sometimes, where he worries that they’re rushing into things, but when he had been so certain he would die at Insomnia Manor, all the things that had seemed so important before meeting Gladiolus just don’t have meaning any more.

Gladio’s apartment is small, but it suits him perfectly — better yet, Ignis used the money in Regis’s accounts to buy it outright, and there’s still more than enough left over.

Prompto shrugs out of his coat and hangs it on the hook by the door, rubbing his hands against the chill of the apartment. As if reading his thoughts, Gladiolus makes a beeline for the fireplace and drops to his haunches to light it.

‘So what do you wanna do tomorrow?’ Prompto asks, moving to the kitchen to fill the kettle. ‘We can go to Arthur’s Seat? Or eat someplace fancy?’

The water’s boiling calamitously by the time Gladiolus comes in; Prompto doesn’t hear him approach, and has the pleasant surprise of finding a pair of strong, warm arms wrapped around his middle, Gladio’s lips brushing his ear.

‘How ‘bout,’ Gladio says, his voice an appealing growl, ‘we don’t leave bed all day, and we order in?’

Prompto can’t help the little smirk that twists the corner of his mouth. He’d just as soon spend the day cuddling with Gladiolus, but he has a feeling that’s not what his lover means — and that’s fine by him, too.

The kettle clicks off, but he ignores it as he turns in Gladio’s arms, slipping his hands up to knot through his hair and standing up on tiptoes to catch him in a kiss.

They forget about the kettle and retreat to the couch, shedding layers as they go. The fire has already warmed the living room and any last vestiges of cold are chased from Prompto’s skin by the heat of Gladiolus against him.

They can take their time; there are no roommates to interrupt them here, no classes to rush off to. When Gladio lowers himself atop Prompto, for a little while he gazes into his eyes, and Prompto can’t help but feel like he’s dreaming.

They move in a daze — long, languorous kisses give way to more frantic touches. At times it seems to Prompto that they might slip through each other’s fingers if they don’t hold tight; at others it’s as though there’s room for nothing else in the world but them.

After, Prompto dozes; when he wakes, Gladiolus has covered him with a blanket, and he sits asleep in the armchair nearby.

With a drowsy smile, Prompto snuggles down into his blanket and watches the steady rise and fall of Gladio’s chest, his face in peaceful repose.

* * *

The streets of Edinburgh have turned to slush as the snow and sleet melts; Prompto all but wades through it on his way to campus, feeling the wet seep through the canvas of his shoes.

Just another semester, then he’ll be home free — until his final year. He hasn’t even decided what he’s doing after that, and the question nags at him at the most inopportune of moments.

There’s home, of course: Missouri, and all the family and friends that live there. Cindy, in particular, will always have a place for him at her auto shop — but apart from a few summers in high school spent tinkering on engines to earn enough to fund his photography hobby, it’s not exactly a  _ career. _

Soon enough his fellow students will begin the scouting process, or move on to further studies; the whole world is open to them. He can’t help but feel he doesn’t know what he wants, even now that he’s almost three years into his Masters.

That’s not entirely true — he wants Gladiolus. He wants to not have to worry about how Gladiolus will cope without a bank account, without a passport, without any proof that he  _ exists. _ He wants to bring Gladio back home with him to meet his family; he wants to have a normal life together.

Sometimes it feels like it’s just within their reach. At others, it’s a pipe dream: a perfect life for any other couple but them.

He has a seed of an idea as he kicks the sludge from his shoes outside the lecture hall for his first class of the semester. Maybe it’s crazy, but it’s something to work towards, at least. As he moves into the hall and takes a seat, he clings to the thought, letting it thaw the chill of the cold January air from his bones.

* * *

‘You mean… stay here this summer?’

Gladiolus doesn’t look entirely convinced, but Prompto presses on — the more he thinks about it, the more excited he gets.

‘I’ll get a job,’ Prompto says. ‘And we can stay at your place. Or — or I can see if Alex wants to extend the lease and—’ 

‘Prompto.’ 

Gladio’s frown isn’t encouraging, and Prompto feels his heart drop. Maybe Gladio doesn’t  _ want _ him to stick around this summer; maybe he doesn’t see a future for them together.

‘You know I can’t leave here, right?’ Gladiolus says. ‘I don’t have a passport. Probably can’t  _ get _ one, ever, so I ain’t movin’ back to the States any time soon. I don’t want you to put your life on hold for me.’

‘It’s just a few months,’ Prompto says.

Gladiolus looks at him levelly.

‘Not talking about the summer, Prompto.’

Prompto doesn’t like the look in Gladio’s eyes — like he’s given up already. They have options, he’s sure, and they can figure it out if Gladiolus will only agree to  _ try _ , at least.

‘Iggy said he knows some solicitors, right?’ Prompto says. ‘Maybe they can help us. You can’t be the first person who ever turned up without an identity.’

Across the table from him, Gladiolus folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his seat.

‘You sure this is what you want?’ he asks. ‘A boyfriend who’s gotta get locked up every month around the full moon? When you see yourself in ten years, is this really where you wanna be?’ 

Prompto takes a good, long moment to think — as if  _ thinking _ hasn’t been all he’s doing lately.

So maybe they’re a little unconventional; if Gladio gets angry, he has to step away for a while in case the beast takes over, and he doesn’t age like a human, which will have its own problems down the line. Prompto’s not exactly normal, either, and he’s not sure that after the events of Insomnia Manor, he can just go back to being regular old  _ Prompto Argentum, _ boring and average.

After everything that happened, there are times when the mundane parts of his life don’t even feel real. It’s like the classes and friends and grocery shopping and chores are all a dream that he’s just waiting to wake up from — to open his eyes, and realise he’s been locked in the manor the whole time.

With Gladiolus, it isn’t like that. With Gladiolus, he  _ knows _ what’s real.

‘I’m sure,’ Prompto says. He reaches across the table and tugs at Gladio’s sleeve until he unfolds his arms, then holds his hand. ‘Yeah, it’ll take a lot of figuring out — but what we’ve got is worth it.’

They don’t stay out for long since Prompto has class in the morning. After two drinks they grab their coats; Gladiolus helps Prompto slip his on, kissing the back of his neck as he does so.

Prompto feels a chill wind up his spine as he steps outside. Just the cold, he tells himself, as he pops the collar of his coat. Just a breeze.

It’s so dark, in spite of the early hour. Prompto’s already looking forward to the longer days of the warmer months — to evenings spent lounging on the Meadows with a book and a bottle of cider. Maybe he can drag Gladio along to one of the barbecues the university societies throw sometimes…

He feels it again a little farther along Cowgate. His skin prickles, and before he knows what he’s doing he stops in his tracks, rooted to the spot. If Gladiolus hadn’t been holding his hand he might not even have realised.

Gladio turns and looks at him with a bemused smile; whatever look is in Prompto’s eyes, it must be enough to make the smile turn to a furrowed brow.

‘Prom,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’

Edinburgh is never quiet by night — whether it’s the low roar of traffic, or the voices of revellers, there’s always a hum to the city, as though it’s never quite asleep. All of that noise seems to fall away, little more than white noise in the background.

Prompto wants to look around; wants to convince himself that it’s just his imagination. When he tries to move, however, it’s as though his feet are made of lead — as though his limbs are sluggish and under someone else’s control.

He blinks, and it all comes back to him in a rush: the honking of a horn on South Bridge where it spans far above, the buzz of the streetlamps overhead, and Gladiolus’s hand clutching his own, warm and rough and reassuring.

‘Sorry,’ Prompto says ruefully, shaking his head. ‘Kinda went off into my own little world there.’

He picks up their former pace, tugging Gladiolus along by the hand; with each step they take that feeling of unease — of being  _ watched _ — fades until it’s little more than a memory.

* * *

There’s a drip coming from a leaky tap in the kitchen. The little  _ thud _ as it hits the metal sink below is not the only thing to disturb the stillness of the apartment; from time to time there’s the wet sound of a mouth moving hungrily over flesh, and with it the softest of groans.

Pale fingertips press to the windowpane, barely feeling the cold seeping through the glass.

It was  _ him _ . She’s sure of it.  _ Him, _ and his filthy pet wolf — the one who took him away from her.

‘You need to eat, love. While her heart still beats.’

She had wanted to slam her fist against the glass; had wanted to tear at the window latch and throw it open, screaming his name. When he had stalled in the street, just outside the shabby little apartment they’ve come to call home, she had been so sure that he knew she was watching.

‘Lunafreya.’

The tone brooks no argument this time; she turns, reluctantly, and moves to where Noctis sits on the couch, a woman draped across his lap like a lover.

She feeds, as she knows she must, but the blood in this one’s veins is thin — watery and flavourless. They’re all like that: she could drain a hundred of them and never fill the void in her belly, in her veins, where Prompto’s blood once thrummed along with her own.

While she presses the woman’s wrist to her lips, drinking deep, Noctis lifts a hand and cups her cheek.

She can’t help but be ashamed to let him see her like this, even as his own skin still bears the scars from that night, when the manor had burned around them. She’s never been more grateful that she has no reflection to haunt her, to remind her of how hideous she’s become.

With each feeding they grow stronger, their scars fading a little more, yet even to beings as old as them, the months of waiting — of biding their time — feel like an eternity.

They feed long after the woman has stilled, the faint beating of her heart now silenced.

It’s not enough. It’s never enough.

‘I can find another,’ Noctis says, tracing his fingertips down Lunafreya’s disfigured cheek. ‘If you’re still hungry.’

Repulsed, she flinches away.

She knows they should have died in the manor — in the fire which had crawled up their skin so tantalisingly, so agonisingly slow. There are times when she wonders if she did; if this is the afterlife, an eternity of misery and torture and  _ grey _ to punish her for her wicked deeds.

She rises to her feet, wrapping herself up in the folds of the shawl Noctis had slipped from the woman’s shoulders as she swooned into his arms.

Lunafreya returns to the window, to her vigil, as she always does. Stares out into the night, even though she knows Prompto is long gone.

He must feel her close by, as she does; must feel the thread binding them together, even as he pulls blindly against it.

He’ll come for her. She’s sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's this? My Halloween fic is finally done????????
> 
> Yeah, I don't believe it either.
> 
> What was _supposed_ to be maybe 5 chapters tops kind of span out of control. _Oops_. I hope you've all enjoyed the ride, regardless — it's been fun to write something a little macabre and self-indulgent.
> 
> Huge shoutout to everybody who's commented along the way, especially the people who joined late even though it was still chugging along months after Halloween was over! You make it all worthwhile <3
> 
> [main tumblr](http://theorchardofbones.tumblr.com) | [ffxv sideblog](http://harshmallowffxv.tumblr.com) | [twitter](http://twitter.com/ghostmallovv)


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